


The Evening Red

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Darkspawn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves, Witches, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-12-17 06:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.“You wear your hair long, which is charmingly different from every other man,” she reaches upwards, barely brushes her fingertips against the shell of his ear. “You wear a single earring as well, which suggests you like to stand out. However, your hair is pulled back almost so that you can’t tell how long it is.” She slips a finger around a strand, pulls it loose against his face. “Your suit is the same as any other, but you pay particular mind to your pocket watch. That is the most expensive thing you own, I would wager. You are a man who wants to be noticed, but is far lonelier than he means to be.” Her hand falls from his ear lobe, settles on his thigh. She doesn’t break her gaze from his.





	1. Great Expectations

He has been watching her, of that he cannot deny. She strikes a strange figure in a place such as this – woman, amongst men. He could not help but take notice of her. He is not the only one. Faces glance towards her, eyes linger. A white blouse, in a sea of black suits. She keeps a hand on the bar as she looks over her shoulder. A thrill moves through his spine, when her gaze meets his. Her cursory sweep of the pub squarely stops at him. She makes a study of him, through the crowd, passing strangers. Strange disappointment as she looks away, but it’s only for a moment. 

With careful step, she makes her way towards him, two glasses in her hand. She takes a seat beside him on the bench, putting down the glasses. She pushes one towards him. “Thank you Miss, but I do not drink,” he says, stopping its approach with only a finger. She raises her eyebrows, faintly, with surprise. Her dark curling hair is pulled back ornately, neatly, but still, a single strand escapes and curls at her temple. So near, and she is more striking than he realized.

“You do realize exactly where you are?” she asks, raising the glass to her lips. The ice clicks together as it moves, dark amber whiskey moving smoothly down her throat. He chuckles under his breath, looks around the pub once more. It is busy, this time of night, filled with smoke and conversation. The newly installed electric lights do their best to cut through all of it, but so many will be too drunk to see properly later anyway.

“Places such as this are wonderful if you wish to study people,” he tells her. Seated in the very corner, this one small table, he slides closer to her, his shoulder pressed against hers. He leans his head close as she does the same, thick as thieves, and whispers to her. “That man, there. What does he say to you? For me, he is not supposed to be here. You see how he glances towards the door? He practically gulps down his drinks as though he expects an angry wife to burst through the door at any moment.” She follows the line of where he points, watches a bead of sweat run down the man’s forehead. 

“That one.” The direction of where he’s pointing moves. “It is subtle, but he is one who cannot give up the drink. He downs far more than his fellows, and yet he is barely affected – save for the red in his nose. He will barely have a hangover tomorrow, because he will be drinking from the moment he wakes,” he says.

“And me?” She asks, “What can you tell of me?” At this, he leans back to look at her properly. She shifts in her seat, putting an elbow on the table to rest her chin against her knuckles. Her other hand rests in her lap, and she is silent and patient. Her grey eyes are cool, unflinching. She doesn’t shy away underneath his contemplation, doesn’t seem concerned by it at all. The collar of her blouse wraps around her neck, frames the warm brown of her skin. The sleeve ends just below the elbow, and she wears no rings or earrings. Her hair is barely contained by the way it’s twisted and manipulated, held in place by pins and hope.

“You give hardly anything away. You are open only just enough to keep others from seeing what exactly you have hidden. I think you are a woman far more complicated than she likes to appear,” he tells her. He watches as the smile spreads across her face, satisfied with his examination of her.

“Should I tell you what I’ve gleaned from you?” She leans in slow and close, and whispers it as though she’s discovered a secret.

“I would be delighted,” and he is, truthfully. Her hand finally slips from her chin, rests easy against the table. She crosses her legs as she playfully narrows her eyes, glancing up and down, making a sport of it.

“You wear your hair long, which is charmingly different from every other man,” she reaches upwards, barely brushes her fingertips against the shell of his ear. “You wear a single earring as well, which suggests you like to stand out. However, your hair is pulled back almost so that you can’t tell how long it is.” She slips a finger around a strand, pulls it loose against his face. “Your suit is the same as any other, but you pay particular mind to your pocket watch. That is the most expensive thing you own, I would wager. You are a man who wants to be noticed, but is far lonelier than he means to be.” Her hand falls from his ear lobe, settles on his thigh. She doesn’t break her gaze from his. “Miss Noya Mahariel.”

“Mr. Zevran Arainai.” 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arainai,” she says. She moves back slightly although she keeps her hand on his thigh, reaches for the glass with the other. As she raises it, he reaches out, puts his hand over the top, and pushes it back to the table.

“I have a suite in the hotel across the street, should you enjoy drinking somewhere more comfortable and private,” he says in a low voice.

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation.

She retrieves her coat at the door. Taking it from the hanger, slipping it over her arm, holding it tightly as she looks back at him. He holds open the door, puts a hand at her back as she moves through. There are small puddles at the edges of the street, the dips in the cobblestone. Evidence of the earlier rain, only just ended. The slight heel of her shoe clicks against the street as they walk across it together, avoiding the waiting taxis. Denerim is going to bed, and its establishments will be emptying soon. The horses paw at the ground, wait for the drunkards to exit the pub.

The hotel is quiet, attended by waiting maids who give them polite nods as they pass. Noya keeps her arm linked in Zevran’s, and although they do not speak, they do give each other the odd glance. He pulls the key from the pocket of his vest, slips it into the lock. A flip of the switch, and the lightbulbs slowly hum to life. As Noya drapes her jacket over the back of the chair by the desk, she looks around. The room is either freshly cleaned, or barely used. The covers of the bed are untouched. A single suitcase in the corner, unopened. He puts his hands at her hips, presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“You certainly waste no time Mr. Arainai,” she says.

“Do you dislike it?” He asks, beginning to move his hands away. A single touch from her keeps them there. She turns to face him, hands on his shoulders, thumbs underneath the hem of his jacket. He lets it fall, to the ground around him, as she turns her attention to his neck scarf. Beginning to undo it, as he tilts his face towards hers. He can feel the tack of her lipstick, the color he kisses away from her. The taste of whiskey is still on her lips, and he undoes the clasps of her belt. She kisses as though it’s a fight. Fierce and without reservation, she gives no ground.

She pulls the scarf from his neck, sends it fluttering to the ground. Her fingers flit about the buttons of his vest, quickening as she presses her tongue against his. She pushes him back with the eagerness of it, and he pulls her blouse free of her skirts. They break, breathless, panting, as he pulls it above her head, casts it away just as the scarf. His hands track against the bindings of her corset at her back, pull at the tie there. His vest is almost on the ground, and she pulls at the buttons of his collar. She has moved them so far that the back of his legs find the bed. When he stops, she puts both hands on his chest, and shoves him back onto the bed.

Noya is quick to straddle him, her boots still on, hanging off the edge of the bed. She looks down at him, hands still pressed at his chest, and licks her lips. She bends down to him, and he closes his eyes as he seals the kiss. Zevran welcomes this devouring. His hands move underneath her skirts, against her stockings, over her thighs. The pain is sudden, pointed, jabbed into the side of his neck. He pushes Noya off of him and to the ground, as he staggers towards the wall, his hand clapped against his neck. She still holds the needle in her hands, looks up at him without expression.

“What did you do to me?” He half hisses the words as his vision begins to blur. His head seems to sway from side to side, and the world moves beneath his feet. “What did you do to me?” He means to shout it, but it comes out no more than a growl. He wants to leap for her, his hands extended towards her throat. A step, and he falters, falls. Noya pushes his limp body off of her legs, puts the needle back into the pocket of her skirts. She retrieves her blouse, slips it over her head. Tucking it back into her belt, as she makes a momentary stop at the mirror. She touches up what needs to be done, before taking the key from Zevran, locking the door behind her.

The maids pay her no mind as she makes her way back down the hallway of the hotel. Her fingers chime the bell at the front desk. As she waits, she simply examines the lobby. She leans leisurely against the desk, and shows no sign of impatience. When the clerk finally arrives, she gives him a pleasant smile. “Good evening,” Noya says, “I was wondering if you could send a telegraph for me.”

* * *

The headache throbs behind his eyelids. “It won’t last much longer.” A voice he doesn’t recognize. “Are you sure you tied them tight enough?” Zevran tests the bonds at his wrists, and yes, more at his ankles. He keeps his head bowed, his eyes closed.

“Yes, I’m quite sure, thank you very much.” A man’s voice. “You could have a little faith in me once in a while.” A scoff, from the woman, at that. Zevran feels hands at the sleeve of his shirt, being rolled up. A chair is scraped forward, and he knows without looking that someone is sitting beside him. Something cold, wet, makes its way across his upper arm. He knows what now presses against it. Another needle.

It’s quick. He has no reason to restrain himself. Bonds are easily broken, the chair beneath him kicked away. The needle clatters to the floor as he strikes it aside, takes hold of the person instead. At this, at least, Noya’s face shows surprise. He drags her up from her own chair, pulls her backwards, his claws extended and primed at her jugular. The other woman and the man move forward instantly, stop as Zevran makes a disappointed noise, with his tongue at his teeth.

“My, my, if you wished to invite more people, asking would have sufficed,” Zevran tells Noya. Her head is pulled back against his shoulder, and she has her hands wrapped around his arm, trying to pull him away from her neck. His other arm is wrapped around her waist, keeping her tightly against him. She’s breathing heavy, but that surprise is gone, replaced with cool fury.

“Release her, creature,” the woman says. A pale thing, surrounded by darkness. Her dress could almost be mistaken for one in mourning, if not for the blood red thread which weaves pattern throughout it. Black hair is pulled back into a bun, while a pendant sparkles at her throat. She raises her hands, rings adorning most of them, and she seems to almost stare through him. Her eyes are a pale green, almost yellow. An easy power in her. The man beside her has his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Messy hair atop his head, stains on his trousers, tattered shoes. The suspenders barely hold back the muscle of him.

“Release her before we make you,” he says, and, oh! It’s there, in the curling of his lip, the way his brown eyes shift to gold. His canine teeth begin to pierce against his lips. Zevran almost wants to laugh. The moonlight filters through the high windows of the warehouse, and they are centered inside it. Crates surround them, the still tools of iron workers. The great forges still glow with hot embers.

“Now, what does a witch, a wolf and a –” Zevran closes his eyes, leans close to Noya, and breathes in deeply, “and a human, want with me?”

“Morrigan. Alistair.” Noya takes one hand away from his arm, slowly lowers it. Morrigan instantly drops the rising magic, while Alistair takes another step forward. Zevran feels the sharp way in which she shakes her head, and at that, he finally stops. “If you’d let me go, we can talk,” she says.

“Ah, as we talked in the pub, or as we talked in the hotel room? I would very much rather keep you like this,” Zevran says, dragging her back another step.

“You know of the blight?” Noya asks, her voice steady even as his fingertips press into the soft flesh of her throat.

“An illness. What of it?”

“We seek to cure it. Thus far, we have not been able to cure it by any usual means. Doctors are at a loss, and researchers don’t know what to do with it. It is ravaging the people who cannot afford better care.”

“You have not told me yet what this is about.”

“The blight doesn’t affect those… those of _another_ nature. We thought we could synthesize a cure from the blood of these others. Werewolf blood proved too volatile, so we went in search of a vampire,” Noya says.

“And how did you know I was one?” Zevran asks.

“I’ve studied the signs. It’s not without fault, and we’ve brought back… mistakes, before,” she says. “You’re our first success.”

“No. You are making another mistake. Vampirism is no cure. It is death,” Zevran says, allowing his fangs and claws to recede as he pushes her away, towards the others. She rubs at her throat as she straightens herself, and turns back to face him.

“It isn’t death. It’s a disease. A disease which works alongside its victims to make them stronger, and keep them healthy. If we could turn this disease to our advantage, then we could be rid of the blight along with who knows how many common ailments. This could change everything,” Noya says, as Alistair and Morrigan step up to flank her.

“One wrong step, and you will be condemning a city,” Zevran warns.

“Denerim will be destroyed if we do nothing. I will not stand by and watch my country slowly burn,” she says.

“How admirable. How very foolish. You are playing a dangerous game.”

“Because we must. You could help us, work with us. Imagine if your blood is the key to everything. What would that do for you, knowing you saved so many?”

“Nothing,” he says. At least they were decent enough to give him clothes back. He smooths down the vest, puts a hand over the pocket to ensure the watch is still there. He adjusts the jacket on his shoulders, and begins to head towards the door. Noya’s footsteps are quick, and she stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Zevran. I wasn’t wrong before, was I? You are lonely. Perhaps we could find some way to help you – cure you of what ails you.” He watches as she pulls a small card from her pocket, holds it out towards him. “Our address, if you’re of a mind to seek us out.” A passing glance before he takes it. This time, when he goes to leave, no one stops him.

Noya rubs the space between her brows as she goes to the tipped over table, begins to pick up needle and vial. “Do you think he’ll come back?” Alistair asks, looking in the direction of Zevran’s departure while Morrigan crosses his arms.

“He will,” Noya says, clasping the box of supplies in her hands, “without a doubt.”


	2. Illumination

The Chantry reeks of incense. Morrigan pulls at the gloves which cover her hands, wrinkles her nose in disgust as she walks inside. She tracks the dirt of the streets onto the white marble floors, and her every step pierces the silence of this place. A small group of children are practicing hymns with a priest, while a few sisters light candles for the coming mass. She walks past the rows of empty pews, towards the confessional booths. Andraste, colored by stained glass, keeps watch of all those who pass. Morrigan pays no mind to all of it, simply keeps her eyes fixed upon her target.

She spins as she pulls the door of the booth closed behind her, adjusts her skirts briefly before she takes a seat. The voice on the other side is pleasant, warm, greets her lightly, “the Maker be with you. How may I help you?” Morrigan smiles at the sound of it, clasps her hands together in her lap. She keeps her back straight, her shoulders square, and the smile lingers on the edges of her lips. She’s not come here for any true confession, but for the voice at the other side.

“Forgive me sister for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession,” she says. She can hear it in the silence – the wondering. Asking if it’s _truly_… and then – the answer. A soft sigh, and through the shrouded screen which separates them, Morrigan can see a hand run itself through red hair. A shake of a head, and Morrigan once again pulls at the edges of her gloves. She never particularly strays from her dark colors. At least, this time, fine white lace is layered over her throat, her chest, circling around her wrists. A string of pearls around her neck, and a hat upon her head. Her dark hair is layered upwards, a single curl at her temple – put there on purpose.

“Again? I did tell you not to do this again.” The Orlesian accent is peppered with as much annoyance as it can muster. Which is to say, isn’t much. It comes off playful, teasing.

“Indeed, and your Maker has not yet seen fit to burst me into flame for my transgressions,” she says. The rustling of robes, and the figure at the other side is standing. She can hear the creak of the door opening, and the polite tap of shoes against the floor. Another creak, this time of her own door opening. Light from the candles, electric lights, and what remains of the day pours in behind Leliana, frames her as she stands in the entrance of the booth.

“What are you doing here?” Leliana asks, the volume of her voice lowering with each word. She looks over her shoulder, glances around the Chantry, before returning her gaze to Morrigan.

“I’d imagine your Revered Mother would not be pleased to see those shoes of yours,” she says as she raises her eyebrows, pointedly looking at the shining leather which peaks under the modest robes of a lay sister.

“Never you mind about the Revered Mother, or my shoes. Don’t change the subject,” Leliana says, stepping inside the confessional and closing the door behind her. Morrigan instinctively rises to meet her, and the two women briefly crash into each other. She puts a steadying hand on Leliana’s waist, while her hand comes to rest on Morrigan’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t come to the Chantry unless it was something important.”

“You have been avoiding your flat.” A little rub of a frown between Leliana’s brows, and she looks away thoughtfully, before giving her answer.

“I haven’t been avoiding it, I’ve been busy.” Leliana doesn’t lie, least of all to her. Her face is fresh and fair, clean of any makeup. She wears no jewelry, and the only indulgence she takes is in the shoes she wears. Her short hair is relaxed, void of the usual curls with which she styles it. A single braid exists, no doubt put there by some child. Morrigan represses the urge to unravel it, re-do it herself.

“Doing the Maker’s work,” she says, the sarcasm and eye-roll implied in the way it rolls off her tongue. Leliana gives her shoulder a small squeeze.

“It gives me a sort of peace. You might enjoy it, if you tried it.”

“I think not,” she says stiffly. Leliana chuckles, raises her other hand to her lips to stifle the laughter, as the whole of her shakes with delight. Morrigan has no choice but to sway with her and her laughter, trapped so tightly against her in the booth.

“Such a protest, each time! You act as though I ask you to storm the void itself,” she says.

“Enough of this. I sought you out to inform you we have found one.” Leliana’s eyes widen at Morrigan’s words. “He did not linger, but our fearless leader is confident he will return to us. She awaits us at the University.” Without realizing, Leliana’s hold tightens on Morrigan. Breathless excitement, and she bites her bottom lip, but even that can’t hide the grin that bursts across her face.

“Let me change and collect my things, I would very much like to meet him,” she chatters, beginning to untangle herself from Morrigan, reaching blindly behind her for the doorknob.

“I thought as much.” Leliana has to actually turn to find the doorknob, and together, they clamber out of the confessional booth. Morrigan adjusts her hat, briefly checks the pearl earrings which dangle against the edge of her jaw. She leisurely walks towards the door, as Leliana struggles not to race to the meagre quarters where she had been staying. She changes quickly – a navy blue skirt, along with a ruffled high neck blouse adorned with lacing the same color as her skirt. A scrawled note on the Revered Mother’s desk is all she does to announce her leaving.

Leliana meets Morrigan at the door of the Chantry, quickly slips her arm into Morrigan’s, keeping them closely together. “Tell me everything,” she says eagerly as they step out onto the street, begin making their way towards the University of Denerim. The streets aren’t as busy, this close to evening. A few carriages make their way through the streets, but there are mostly walkers who mind their own business. Shops will begin to close soon enough, and the lamplighters are already making their way from one to the next.

“There isn’t much to tell you, truly,” Morrigan says, “’twas a wholly unsatisfactory exchange. We met briefly, he threatened us, and then was gone. Miss Mahariel seems confident he’ll suit our purpose, but both Mr. Theirin and I have our doubts. He seems the fickle sort, not so likely to aid us.” They weave around a group walking in the opposite direction, and Leliana does not reply until they are safely out of earshot.

“Well, if Noya is certain… this is our first success in months. We’ve met no other vampire, nor have we seen any signs. We have to have a bit of faith,” she says, leaning her head close to Morrigan’s.

“’Faith’,” she says, looking at Leliana with every inch of doubt engraved in her glance. She gives Morrigan’s arm a small squeeze with her other hand.

“Yes, faith. It won’t kill you to have a little of it,” she says. “How can someone who practices magic have so little capacity to believe in that which she cannot see?”

“Magic is real. I can touch it and command it and I need no faith for it to fill me up inside,” Morrigan says. Leliana only smiles and shakes her head.

“I’ve told you before what an incredible gift I think you have.” She holds out her free hand in front of her, as though flame might suddenly be conjured there. “I’ve always dreamed of magic, since I was a little girl.”

“Don’t let the Revered Mother hear you say that,” she says. Leliana lets her hand fall. The University of Denerim stands near the edge of the city, close to the Royal Palace. Once called Fort Drakon, the military outpost was refitted for a more modern purpose. Students busy themselves on the grounds, with Leliana and Morrigan being simply two more passing through. They make their way through the twisting hallways, up through the tower, until they come to a specific classroom.

The medical theatre is laid out spectacularly – an operating table sits at the very center while the seats rise around it. In one of these seats, her head in folded arms and soundly asleep, is Noya. At the front of the classroom, sitting at the desk, the professor is marking pages. “Good evening Professor Aequitar,” Leliana says, taking her arm from Morrigan’s, moving towards the desk. Looking up from her papers, Wynne smiles, and takes the glasses from her face.

“Good evening Miss Vasseur, I’m glad to see Miss Conobar found you well,” she says. Morrigan, taking off her hat, moves up a few steps, goes to sit in one of the chairs near Noya. She places her hat on the small writing desk in front of her, and crosses her legs. “I wish I could say I had more to tell you, but we’ve had no unexpected guests of late.”

“That’s a shame,” Leliana says as she pulls up a chair near the desk. Wynne moves her sleeve slightly, to glance at the watch on her wrist.

“I expect Mr. Theirin will be joining us soon for another vigil,” she says.

“Has he stayed with her both nights?” Morrigan asks, her voice echoing in the classroom. Wynne turns the glasses in her hands, her elbows settled against the desk. She dresses simply, a plain dress meant for work. The apron is affixed against her, tied at her neck and around her waist. Stains of a darker sort paint the front of it, evidence of things no one would dare ask her about. She smiles softly, looks towards Noya.

“Of course he has.”

“A fool.” Morrigan scoffs, crosses her arms.

“I think it’s sweet,” Leliana says. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to stay the night. Admittedly, I’ve been neglecting my rest a touch and I do miss the feeling of my own bed.”

“Oh, I’ve told you before you need your proper rest,” Wynne says as she puts her glasses down, rises from the chair. She rounds the desk towards Leliana, and touches her chin, tilting her face up towards her. A fairly gentle inspection, turning her face this way and that, her lips thinning at what she sees – the dark circles underneath Leliana’s eyes, the looseness of her dress. “You’re not eating properly either.”

“You’ve caught me out,” she says, “The Revered Mother has been quite the taskmaster lately.”

“Go home, dear, eat something and rest,” Wynne says. “_If_ he comes, I have no doubt you’ll be able to meet him later on.” Leliana, looking quite put out, turns and looks over her shoulder at Morrigan. She promptly sighs, and gathers her hat. She makes her way down to the front of the classroom, and holds out her hand towards Leliana.

“Come on then, I will see you home,” she says. Leliana can’t hide the smile as she reaches out, and takes Morrigan’s hand. As they begin to leave, Alistair slides into the classroom, breathless and cheeks red. Sweat shines on his forehead, and on his back.

“Are they leaving? Should I be leaving?” he asks, as they step around him, with Leliana giving him a polite wave. Wynne chuckles and shakes her head.

“No, it’s alright, they simply have things to do,” Wynne says. His shoulders sag with relief. He throws the jacket he had been holding in his hands onto a nearby chair, and sinks into another. He closes his eyes, leans his head back as far as it will go.

“I’m very excited for another night of disappointment,” he says, voice strained. Wynne settles back at her desk, perching the glasses on the edge of her nose. She takes up her pen, continues grading papers. In the corner of the classroom, behind her, the grandfather clock steadily ticks away, the pendulum swinging without worry. It brings Wynne a small chuckle, when Alistair begins to snore. His arms crossed, legs extended, sunk into the chair, his chin almost at his chest. Near him, Noya finally raises her head.

She works the sleep from the corner of her eyes, covers her mouth as she fails to stifle the yawn. “Good morning,” Wynne says to her. Noya rubs the back of her hand against her brow as she fights to wake completely. “It’s almost one in the morning, and almost time for me to leave.”

“Thank you Wynne,” she says, disregarding formality. She glances at Alistair before she stands, rolls her head. She puts her hands at her hips, stretches out her back with a satisfying pop. “I appreciate your staying, and letting us use your offices for this.”

“Of course. I’m as concerned about the blight as you are. There’s been another case. Again, another vagrant,” she says, “of course, the doctors attending him did not give him the proper amount of care he needed to be comfortable.”

“Is it possible for someone with the blight to be comfortable?” Noya shakes her head. “Not that I want an answer to that question. The number grows with each day, and yet they still refuse to listen to us. The blight will swallow the city and still they will say it is no true plague.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Wynne says softly as she stacks her papers. She puts her pens away in the drawer of the desk, and takes off the apron, folding it onto her chair. She moves towards the door, and her jacket. “Goodnight Miss Mahariel.” She flicks the switch of the lights, leaving only a few candles around the theatre to keep the room lit. As the door shuts, Alistair wakes with a startled snore. He looks around wildly for a moment, until his eyes settle on Noya. She’s walking around the stage of the classroom, circling around the operating table, her shoes placed upon it. Carefully, bare foot, she walks the sleep out of her.

“Oh. Wynne left? Morrigan and Leliana were here earlier,” he says as he stands. He trips at first, over one of the small desks, and leaves his jacket behind. He doesn’t pace as she does, but raises his hands above his head and works out the ache. “I might sneak down to the cafeteria and see if there’s anything left. I could eat an entire feast right about now. Do you want anything?” Noya shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and after a moment, “thank you.” He nods.

“I won’t be gone long.” There’s a strange silence in the classroom, after the door closes behind him. The shadows seem thicker, stronger, repelled by the weak flickering of candlelight. Half-hearted rain occasionally knocks against the windows, but it’s hardly more than mere mist. She stops her pacing, her hand resting against the cold metal of the table. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and closes her eyes for only a moment. The hardwood creaks beneath her feet as she shifts her weight. 

She whirls when one of the windows slams open violently. The wind sweeps past her, does away with that last defense of light. She hurries to close it, the window bouncing against the wall. It’s slick to the touch, that misty rain coating her slightly. She pushes it shut, closes the clasp to keep it so. With her hands outstretched to catch anything in her way, Noya slowly navigates towards the desk. Her hands fumble at the drawers, find a pack of matches. The flame comes alight with ease, and she bends over to light one of the candles nearby. She shakes out the match.

Her finger twists into the hook of the candle plate, and she raises it to carry it with her. She turns, takes a step, and stops instantly. Rain drips from his nose, hang from his eyelashes. He’s soaked with it, and yet, he smiles. Zevran closes the distance between them, the candle the only thing separating them. “They did take quite long to leave, hmm? I was worried the wolf might not, considering his attachment to you all these other nights,” he tells her.

“And you wanted me alone,” Noya says.

“I wanted you alone,” he says. The light flickers, sways between them. Amber eyes look at her, grey ones back at him. His skin is darkly warm, even here, slick with wet. He reaches out, pushes aside her wrist, and guides the candle back towards the desk. His touch lingers. His fingers move up her arm, to her shoulder, and a single finger follows the line of her chin. She doesn’t move, or flinch. “And here you are.”

“I’m glad you’ve returned,” she says.

“It is not every day that one seeks out a vampire,” he says, the smile spreading across his face. With it, his fangs begin to lengthen, showing her exactly what she deals with. “I had more questions for you as well. I did not want us to be interrupted.” His nails sharpen, and his hand crawls at her neck. Her gaze stays fixed upon his face. “How did a simple needle pierce me?”

“Tipped with silver,” she says.

“I see.” His hand settles at the nape of her neck, and he steps closer. “You say you studied vampires. I know the stories, the penny dreadfuls, and what they say. You truly believed one would help you in this?” The loose strands of her hair wisp against the back of his hand. Humans always feel so soft. A plush toy, with the seams so easily torn, the stuffing ripped out.

“Yes. One such as you,” she says.

“Then you are naïve,” he tells her. He leans forward, his face very close to hers. Her breath is warm, her scent sweet.

“Perhaps.” A prick, at his neck. Ah. While he remained focused on her, she had slipped her hand into her pocket. She holds the dagger steady, ready to rip through an artery.

“You know that one slice will not kill me. I only need one to kill you,” he says, the claw of his thumb pressing against her jugular.

“You are alone. I am not. If you kill me, they will find you,” she says. “For our research, we don’t need you alive. They don’t need me alive.”

“And yet, how easy it is for me to disappear.”

“No. You want to be found. Others might say you were simply confident in your power, allowing me to return with you to the hotel. I think you were waiting for something interesting to happen,” she says. “I think you were desperately hoping for it.” Zevran throws back his head and laughs.

“You say these things as if you know me.” The laughter dies, the smile fades. “And you do not know me at all.” He tilts his head, his mouth nearing her neck. “I could drain you dry where you stand.”

“Then do it, but know I will not make it easy for you.” The dagger stays clenched in her hands. The plate of food falls from Alistair’s hands. It took only a glance to see his hand around her neck, the fangs in his mouth. Alistair lunges forward, his hands digging into Zevran’s jacket, ripping him away. Alistair takes his place between them, his jaw clenched.

“Rather uncalled for,” Zevran says, as he dusts off his jacket.

“Alistair,” Noya says, putting a hand on his shoulder, the dagger back into its sheath in her pocket. In her touch, an urging, to pull him back. He doesn’t move.

“He tried to kill you,” he growls.

“I did not,” Zevran says, indignant, “I only threatened her some, and she did return the favor.” She walks in front of Alistair, her hand on his chest. A pointed glance, a shake of her head. Alistair doesn’t move, but his claws digging into his palms slowly recede. A grateful nod, and she turns back to Zevran.

“Allow us to take a single sample of your blood,” she says. “This is all we ask.”

“Right now, this is all you ask. And then it is Zevran do this, Zevran do that, Zevran let us just once,” he says, mockingly, his head moving back and forth like the pendulum of the clock, his eyes rolling.

“We can pay you,” she says.

“You think what I want is money? I have plenty of my own, I have no need of your coin,” he says. He is silent for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. “Ah, I have it. Just as you take blood from me, I want to take blood from you. Give me your home address, not this awful place, and allow me to feed upon you once.”

“No,” Alistair swears.

“Yes,” Noya says, at the exact same time. She looks at Alistair briefly before walking towards Zevran, holding out her hand. “Yes, I agree to your terms.” Zevran looks at her hand for a moment, then reaches out, and completes the shake. Immediately, he begins to unbutton his jacket, and she hurries towards the desk. The kit is locked in the last drawer. He leans against the operating table as Noya lights more candles, placing them on the table beside the kit. He rolls up his sleeve, pretends not to notice Alistair glaring at him.

With deft fingers, Noya wraps the band around his arm. She cleans the spot from where she wants to take, and lines up the needle. Another silver tipped thing, and he wonders exactly how many they had prepared. The vial begins to fill. Blackened, almost tar-like in quality. The evidence of his _disease_. She has her brow furrowed in concentration, bent over, drawing the needle from his skin. He leans close, whispers, “do not forget. Your address. Be a proper host and invite me to your home.”

“97 King’s Walk,” she says instantly, pulling the needle from him, wiping both it and him with a cloth. When she pulls the cloth away, the pinprick hole has already closed. Gently, she moves her fingers over it once again, marveling at the fact that the wound is simply gone. Zevran breaks her study when he rolls his sleeve back down.

“Good evening to you, Miss Mahariel. I will be seeing you soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	3. Contention

Her eyes are slow to open. She frowns as she buries her face deeper into the pillow, her fist wrapped in the blanket. The window above her bed is unkind to sleeping, but it’s a far better alternative to the stale air of her flat. Noya rolls over, a hand flat over her chest, and looks up through the curtains to the blue sky outside. The breeze moves it this way and that, the sunlight playing on the blankets. The floorboards creak underneath her steps, and she can hear her neighbors above also moving around their flat. She kneels on the bed to pull back the curtains, and attempts to close the window once again.

She pays the price for having it open, the sagging frame unwilling to accept it back. As early as it is, the streets have already begun to fill. There’s the cacophony of horses and taxis, conversations overlapping and overpowering one another. The factories will be in full swing soon enough, and smoke has already begun to billow from the stacks. With a painful retch, the window finally closes in place. A flick of her finger is all it takes for the latch to swing over, lock in place. Save for the stack of books beside the bed, there isn’t much to suggest someone lives here.

It’s sterile, as clean as it possibly can be, and almost wholly empty. One of the cheapest places she could find in Denerim, and a single room was all she needed. A bed in the corner, a table in the middle for everything else. The kitchen is small but functional, and the same could be said for the rest of it. She fills up the kettle with water, lights one of the burners of the stove as she begins to change. The nightgown falls around her feet as she goes to the closet. She finds something simple, a blouse and a skirt, and that’s good enough.

She pulls the kettle from the stove when it begins to whistle, in time to hear the knock at the door. “Good morning,” he says, when she opens the door. Noya steps aside as Alistair enters, a basket under his arms. He throws his cap onto the table as he settles at one of the chairs. She pulls a few eggs from the basket and gets to work. It’s become routine, more or less, for them to have breakfast together every morning. Particularly once his stove stopped working. The landlord said he’d fix it – but then, that’s what landlords always say before they increase your rent. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks as she puts a plate in front of him, one at the other side.

“Zevran didn’t visit me last night. If he did, I would tell you,” she says, cutting straight to the heart of his question. She takes a seat, crosses her legs as she pushes a cup of coffee towards him. Alistair seemingly barely registers her answer, too busy inhaling the eggs and bacon. He fixes her with a stern look after a moment, washes down the food with a hearty gulp. It’s as though he doesn’t even feel the burn of it. She settles a hand on the table, her index finger pricking at the flat of her thumb. She moves from one finger to the next, begins again.

“Now, when I knock at your door, I worry that all I’m going to find here is a body,” he says, reaching for the toast. Noya chuckles dismissively, her gaze moving downwards as she shakes her head. Three hard swipes with the knife and the butter scrapes across the bread. He downs it as quickly as all the rest. There are crumbs in his stubble. He wears an old grey shirt, the buttons undone at the collar. There are a few odd color stains – from grease, and the bleach mistakenly used to remove them. Suspenders and a belt, and his trousers are in no better shape than his shirt.

“He’s dangerous,” Alistair says to her silence. Noya reaches for the napkin, brings it down to her lap. She turns it in her hands, folding it this way and that.

“I’m quite aware, I’m not arguing otherwise.” she says.

“You should have someone stay with you,” he says, “or stay somewhere else.”

“That would be breaking the terms of our agreement, and we owe him,” she says.

“We owe him nothing,” Alistair says, shaking his head.

“Yes, we do. You of all people should know how much of a risk it is to give us his blood. People won’t understand what he is. All they know, they know from folk tales and stories meant to frighten children in their beds. It’s more complicated than that,” she says.

“Is it?” he frowns. “I of all people know exactly what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve been lucky with what you’ve seen and who you’ve met. Zevran is unlike Morrigan, Wynne and I. Vampires are – I just don’t understand why you’re acting so naïve with him.”

“Don’t mistake me for an innocent,” she says harshly, before relenting. Noya reaches across the table, taps a finger against his knuckle, before she pulls back. She sighs, “Zevran needs to trust us. Better to think us naïve than suspicious. If a vampire’s blood holds the key to the cure, then we’ll need more, and a lot of it. I don’t imagine anyone would be volunteering for that. We need him.” They both look towards the door when they hear the voices outside of it. The building is beginning to empty, and the footsteps echo in the hallway. Alistair stabs the last egg with his fork.

“He’s a murderer, the same as the rest of them,” he says after a moment.

“Maybe so, that doesn’t change anything.”

“At least have Morrigan or Leliana stay with you,” he says, the fork settling against the plate with a metallic tap. He leans back in the chair, one thumb wrapped around a suspender. “Then he might be less likely to eat you.” The noise of the city invades their conversation. She glances towards the window, firmly shut. Denerim invades from all sides. She drops the napkin on the table as she stands, moves towards Alistair, and brushes the crumbs from his cheek.

“I understand your concerns, but it’s a risk I have to take,” she says. Her words end with a tone of finalization. It isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument. It won’t be the last, she knows. She doesn’t resent him for it, but her patience wears. Alistair collects the plates, the cups, cleans them and puts them on the rack as she collects her jacket, her keys, finds the single book she needs from the pile.

“Have you seen Tam lately?” Alistair asks as he takes his cap, fits it on his head. She locks the door behind them.

“I haven’t had much time,” she says as they make their way down the stairs, avoiding the people who loiter there, “but I was planning to go see him tonight.” Navigating through the crowded streets is much easier by Alistair’s side. His height and width incline others to step out of his way, and all Noya has to do is stay slightly behind him.

“Well, tell him I say hello and that he still owes me two gold,” he says.

“I’ll be sure to mention it,” she says as they rush across the street, to where the steel works await. They stop at just the side of the entrance gates, and huddle together. “Be careful today.”

“I always am,” he says, putting his hand on her arm, “you too. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He gives her a gentle squeeze, before turning away. They go in separate directions, with Noya focused on heading towards the University.

“Good morning Wynne,” she says when she finally makes it to the classroom, hanging up her coat. Wynne has her glasses perched at the edge of her nose, the scalpel in her hand as she dissects the arm on the operating table. Wynne looks up and smiles as Noya places the book on her desk.

“Good morning Miss Mahariel. Are you finished already? Did you answer all the questions?” she asks, as she looks back down at her work. She has a bloody apron wrapped around her waist, covering her skirts. The theatre will fill with students soon, all prepared to learn from Wynne.

“I did. Whether I got them correct or not remains to be seen,” she says as she approaches the table. Wynne chuckles under her breath as she carefully moves the vein, begins to pull at the radial nerve.

“I’m sure you did. You’ve a mind for riddles,” she says.

“Nerves today?” Noya asks, as she peers over the table at what Wynne is doing. Wynne opens her mouth to answer, but is stopped by the door to the classroom flying open. Morrigan is breathless as she pulls the scarf from around her neck, tosses it with her jacket onto Wynne’s desk.

“Your class is to be cancelled – and we are all to be summoned,” she says, the hurried and points steps of her heels echoing in the empty space. Wynne raises her eyebrows and puts down her scalpel, takes off her gloves. “We are to speak with the King himself.”

“About the blight?” Noya asks.

“There can be no doubt,” Morrigan says.

“Ah,” Wynne says, pushing up her glasses, “I don’t expect they’ll ask any complicated questions. They will want to know if we’re close to a cure, and that’s all.” The voice of experience.

“This is our chance to impress upon the King and the Court that the blight is not to be taken lightly. We need more funding, more space to research – more everything. Thus far they have looked upon it as though it is no more than a common cold,” Noya says, the frustration coming through clearly in the latter half of her words.

“I would not expect the King to properly listen,” Morrigan says, “presumably he will promise us something, and his advisors will look into it and find there is nothing in the coffers to aid us.” She waves her hand in the air dismissively.

“Hush,” Wynne says, glancing towards the door. Sure enough, a figure soon fills the frame. Imposing, but not unkind, Duncan scratches at his beard as he smiles at the three women. The Dean of Medicine, Noya has only met him once before. Wynne, on the other hand, is the only one to smile back.

“Should I even bother, or has Morrigan already told you?” he asks.

“Is he coming here, or are we meeting him elsewhere?” Noya stands at attention, her hands clasped behind her back. They squeeze each other tightly, her knuckles white, fingers pressing into each other. She keeps her attention on Duncan, doesn’t look away. 

“You’re to come to the Chancellor’s office when you’re ready. I would suggest leaving the apron behind,” he says. Wynne is untying it already.

“Thank you Ser Duncan,” she says, before he nods, leaves the way he came.

“He does not come here, or to our offices to see our research. ‘Tis disappointing already and we’ve not yet met the man,” Morrigan says, as she turns to the others. 

“If it doesn’t touch one of the nobility or someone else of importance, then it’s overlooked. It’ll be printed that he visited and spoke to us about a cure, and that will be enough to placate the masses until it gets worse,” Noya says. Wynne folds her apron, tucks it underneath her arm.

“There’s no point in arriving already furious,” she says. “We’ll be polite, we’ll answer his questions and we’ll try to inform him of the importance of funding. There’s nothing more we can do.” Noya squeezes her hands together tighter. It takes them only a few minutes to get ready, make their way across the campus. Even then, they’re left waiting outside the Chancellor’s office. Noya puts a hand over her knee, to stop her leg from bouncing. It’s Duncan, once again, who retrieves them, brings them into the office. Chancellor Irving is sitting, his cane resting against the desk, his hands folded on top of it.

“King Theirin.” It’s a chorus that moves from one to the other, as they each curtsey in turn.

“Ms. Aequitar,” Cailan says as he stands to meet them, his hand already extended towards Wynne, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. I hear you’re doing wonderful work to make the University proud. To make all of Denerim proud.” He raises her hand to his lips, presses a chaste kiss against her knuckles.

“Your Majesty, I didn’t expect –”

“The King to take an interest in medical research? How could I miss all the fun,” Cailan says with a wide smile. He’s personable, at least. Noya shifts her gaze from Cailan to the one behind him, a much sourer personage. “I take it these are your new ‘recruits’?” He lets Wynne’s hand go gently, before turning to the others.

“Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty. This is Noya Mahariel and Morrigan Connobar. They give me comfort to know that when I retire, the students will be left in their capable hands,” she says.

“I assume they are assisting you in finding a cure for this illness they’re calling the blight?”

“That’s correct, your Majesty.”

“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it. These things are common to large cities, are they not? I hear that most of it has already been quarantined. I’m sure that –”

“Excuse me your Majesty,” Noya says, stepping forward, “but have you seen the sick?”

“You’re asking if your King has been to a dangerous and infectious place,” the man behind him states dryly.

“Hush, Loghain. I haven’t. Please, go on,” he says, turning attentively to Noya. She clenches her jaw, shifts her frown away from Loghain.

“Then you don’t know what’s happening to them. This sickness robs them of their humanity. It strips away their morals, their rationality. They are violent, dangerous, and yes – contagious. It moves slowly through their system, taking a piece of them as it goes. If we do not find a cure, we can never return those already sick back to their loved ones. They will die, and it may be a mercy. If the blight takes any more, it will expand from Denerim throughout Ferelden,” she says. Cailan continues to smile.

“You make it sound so dire! I know how capable Ms. Aequitar and Ser Duncan are. I’m sure that together, all of you will find a way to stop this blight in its tracks,” he says.

“You say it turns them violent.” Loghain plays with the fraying edges of the armrest. His dark hair is slicked back, his suit subtly expensive and neat. “How so?”

“They lash out and attempt to kill any close to them, ser,” Morrigan says.

“You think this blight came about naturally, or could it have been manufactured?”

“Oh Loghain, please. Orlais would never do such a thing,” Cailan says. Loghain fixes him with a silent stare, before he looks back at the others. The three of them exchange a glance.

“There _is_ a possibility that the blight isn’t natural,” Wynne says slowly.

“Please accept my apologies Ms. Aequitar, Miss Mahariel, Miss Conobar. Lord Mac Tir is getting quite paranoid in his old age,” Cailan laughs, but there’s an edge to it; a warning. “I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll discuss things with my advisors and see if we can’t get you more funding, hmm? I have faith you’ll find a cure soon enough.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Wynne says, putting her hand at Noya’s back. This is also a warning. It silences her, and her mouth shuts with a clack of teeth. Duncan opens the door for them – and they’re dismissed as quickly as they were welcomed. Outside the closed door, Morrigan laughs mockingly.

“As we said. Disappointing,” she says.

* * *

Noya makes her way quickly down the street. Most of the city attends to their supper, and the streets aren’t quite as busy. Even more so down the route she takes. She keeps her hands in the pocket of her coat, and her steps are fixed ever forward. A superstitious lot, most people cross the street instead of walking in front of the hospital Noya now stands in front of. She’s met with familiar nods, greetings from the nurses and orderlies she passes. Down the stairs, into the basement, where a guard stands with a key.

The sick mask does nothing, she knows, but it does make them feel better. She puts it on, signs her name in the book, before the guard unlocks the gate. They’ve made the basement a prison. Patients writhe as they’re strapped to beds, bits in their mouths, wrapped around their skulls. Their eyes stay wide, bloodshot and frenzied. A few nurses make their way between beds, cleaning up what they can. Noya drags a stool from a corner, towards a single bed. She brushes back his hair, checks his neck. The discoloration has already started. “Hello Tam,” she says softly. Tamlen only bucks underneath the straps, his hands trying to reach from her. Drool spills down his cheek, salivating at the sight of her.

Noya takes the cloth from the table, dabs at his mouth gently. “Alistair says hello. He hasn’t forgotten about the bet you lost yet. Give it another week,” she says. She speaks as though she doesn’t see him bite at the tack in his mouth. She pretends he doesn’t look at her without recognition, and that his whole body doesn’t ache to attack her. She leans in close, her elbows on her knees.

“I’ve found one, Tam. We’re studying his blood now. I know there’s answer. It’s going to be alright. I’m going to find a cure,” she whispers. Hesitantly, she rests her hand on his arm. He’s cold to the touch, almost dead. His grunting grows louder, his thrashing fiercer. Only when he begins to scream through the bit does she take her hand away. She smiles as she clenches her hand into a fist. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Her visits are never long. They’re for her, not for him. “Coming back soon?” the guard asks as she leans over to sign the book once again, noting the time of her exit. She sighs as she undoes the mask.

“Tomorrow, most likely.”

“See you tomorrow then, Miss Mahariel.”

She walks slowly, leisurely, without direction. Her brows knot together, her every thought occupied. She pauses when she feels the hair at the back of her neck raise. She presses her hand against her nape, and turns. She looks down the street, sees people laughing and smiling together. Some share food, others talk loudly, while others walk in silence. There is nothing and yet – Noya cannot shake the feeling she is being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	4. Interception

“It behaves abnormally. It is most inhuman, unlike anything I have seen before,” Morrigan says, her legs curled up beside her as she sits on the armchair. She turns the glass in her hands, the amber liquid slowly rotating within. Logs in the fireplace crack, and she takes a drink. Opposite her, in the other armchair, with elbows on her knees and hands clenched together, Noya watches the flicker of flame.

“Did we truly expect it to be normal? Human? We were hoping for this,” she says.

“Now we must attempt to bend it to our wishes,” Wynne says, sitting on the couch beside Leliana, “unfortunately, you are alone in this Morrigan.”

“Our poor lonely hematologist,” Leliana says with a smile. Morrigan sits up a little straighter, settling her drink on the table.

“I wish I could offer insight, but it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. It acts in a manner similar to the blight, except instead of control, it seeks rebirth. It destroys every bit of living tissue it comes into contact with. I do not understand it. From the way his blood acts, Zevran should be dead, and yet he is clearly not,” Morrigan says. “It looks less like a potential cure and more like a monstrosity.” Leliana looks over at the others – frowning Noya, leaning back in her chair. Contemplative Wynne, taking a sip of wine. Resigned Morrigan, using the back of her hand to cover a yawn. With her index finger, Leliana circles the rim of her own glass.

Noya leans forward in her chair, hand out, shifting her gaze between Wynne and Morrigan. “We’re looking at this as a wholly scientific issue. As you said, it’s inhuman. Perhaps we should be as well,” she says.

“You’re suggesting we use our magic,” Morrigan says.

“Is that wise – considering the risk?” Leliana asks. There’s a moment of silence. The pendulum of the grandfather clock beside the fireplace sways without interruption, counting down the seconds. The lights in the hallway buzz with subtle electricity. Morrigan reaches for her drink, fingernails tapping gently against the glass. She swirls the alcohol about, watching the whirlpool that forms.

“As the blight spreads, it will continue to draw public attention. A visit from the King was only the beginning. Heaven forbid the blight takes someone of nobility. There will be an intense amount of scrutiny upon those searching for a cure. Us. If we do successfully find a cure, there will be attempts to replicate and mass produce it. Perhaps even a step into inoculation. If there is something… odd, about this cure, it will be quickly noticed and investigated,” Wynne says.

“I’ve no interest in being burned at a stake,” Morrigan says, downing the rest of her liqueur. “We’re already stepping into uncharted territory by using the blood of a _vampire_. Are we to expect that no one will raise questions about the base of our cure?”

“You said it acts similar to the blight. Can’t we say we manipulated the blight into working for us? The rest of it could be covered under that. The blight is new and strange, is it so suspicious that the cure would be as well?”

“Dear. I understand why you want this cure so badly. I want it so badly as well. The suffering of the blight – we all have people we want to protect. We must also think of ourselves. This is dangerous, and that danger will only grow. We must be discreet, or else we will expose the nature of not only ourselves, but Alistair, Zevran, others currently in hiding and those sheltering us. We have a responsibility to tread carefully,” Wynne says softly, but firmly, clearly.

At first, there’s something like an argument forming in her. Noya presses her fists against her knees, her shoulders square and back straight. Then her hands flatten, and she sinks into the chair with a heavy sigh. “I know. I appreciate the danger you’ve put yourselves in,” she says, “but we’re running out of time.” There’s a small frown perched on her brow, and she rubs her mouth with her hand, elbow on the armrest. Her gaze has moved back to the fire, the logs which snap and break, causing sparks to gently fly.

“I’m sure that together we can figure something out,” Leliana says, ever optimistic. Her forced cheer doesn’t reach the others. Morrigan and Wynne exchange a worried glance, before attention turns. A creak, weight upon wood floors, footsteps clear. Morrigan sets her glass down, cocks her head and looks towards the empty doorway behind the couch.

“Were we expecting anyone else?”

“No,” Noya says, slowly rising from her chair, “we weren’t.” The buzz of the lights in the hallway seem to grow louder, and louder still. A cacophony of cicadas, and the light intensifies, blinding almost. All of them out of their seats now, standing together. Leliana steps back, against Morrigan, who takes her hand. An explosion of glass, lightbulbs shattering in their places. All four involuntarily flinch. The fireplace behind them stretches their shadows out long, disappearing in the darkness of the hallway.

The pendulum sways.

Noya reaches into her pocket, finds the hilt of the small sheathed dagger there. Her blood seems to quicken, cold at the nape of her neck. She clenches her jaw shut, watching the nothing intently.

The pendulum sways.

Leliana’s hand squeezes around Morrigan’s, and she forces herself to take small breaths. She closes her mouth, holds her breath. Morrigan has her other hand raised, ready, and waiting. Wynne, beside Noya, is doing much the same.

The pendulum sways.

The fire behind them dims, cooled unnaturally. Not even a gesture from a witch can re-light it, and Morrigan voices her frustration with a simple, “_tsk_”. Slowly, the cage closes around them.

The pendulum sways.

The blighted scream into the room, their hands outstretched, reaching towards them. Their teeth chomp together, over and over, an unintelligible hunger spilling from their lips. Noya plants her foot at the edge of the couch and roughly kicks it forward, at them, while Leliana takes a step back. She replaces Morrigan’s hand with the cold metal of the fire poker. “What do we do?” Morrigan shouts, holding a small amount of fire in her hands.

“I don’t think we have a choice in the matter,” Noya shouts back as she pulls the dagger from its sheath. The blighted are recovering from the couch shoved in their way. They crawl over it, stagger around it, reaching for them. One for each. They claw, spit and scream, eyes bloodshot and moving back and forth faster than any pendulum. Wynne picks up her skirts and races for the nearby desk, pulling a drawer so quickly that the whole thing comes out entirely. From it, she plucks up the gun.

“Don’t burn down my house,” she bellows, as Morrigan keeps the blighted away with small puffs of flame. Leliana is holding the iron in her white knuckled hands. One of them has his hands biting into Noya’s shoulders. A hand on his chest, keeping his snapping teeth away. She raises the dagger, sinks it deep into his neck. Blackened blood drools from the wound, and the blighted only pushes her harder. Flame doesn’t catch upon their skin, their clothes, and Leliana raises the iron above her head, brings it down in a mighty swing.

It knocks the blighted down, groaning, nails scratching against the floor. Another blow, to the skull. It caves it in something awful, blood and bile spewing. It moves to rise and Leliana strikes it again, and again, and again, until it is naught but a twitching bloody mess upon the floor. The one approaching her screams, and Wynne is carefully aiming. It is one body, among many. The hardest thing is to pull the trigger. Three in the chest, knocking it back, tripping it over the fallen couch. One in the skull to finish it. Noya buries the dagger into the eye of the one on her. Morrigan takes a nearby lamp, smashes it over the last one. Leliana finishes it.

Leliana is breathing heavy, the iron still clutched in trembling hands. Blood is sprayed across her dress, her face. The same goes for Noya, wrenching the dagger free. Her dress is torn, hair pulled loose from the blighted’s pawing. “I believe we have a much larger problem than we initially thought,” Wynne says, putting the gun down on the desk, rubbing her forehead.

“This was purposeful,” Noya says, “directed.”

“Not only do we need to find a cure, we also need to be on the lookout for a puppet master who could turn the blighted on us at any moment. Wonderful!” Morrigan says, taking the iron from Leliana.

“We need the police,” Leliana says mechanically.

“We need to find out if anyone else’s home was targeted. If they were, we’ll need to find other places to stay,” Noya says.

“That’s for the morning. Leliana is right. We need the police,” Wynne says.

There are questions all night. Endless discussions in the morning. Waiting, in the afternoon. Duncan finds them at the station. His jacket is slung over one arm, and he’s turning his hat in his hands. “The labs were destroyed. Every bit of research is gone, burned down. It was like a swarm descended upon the university,” he tells them quietly. “They tell me that only Wynne’s estate was attacked, but that doesn’t mean the rest of you are safe.”

“The blighted did this on purpose, Duncan. The disease turns them into unthinking monsters, and yet they were capable of this,” Noya says, sitting on the bench beside Morrigan.

“We’ll discuss this later, in private,” he says in a low voice, looking over his shoulder for any who might be listening. “For now, I’ve ordered a taxi to take you all home. Wynne, I’ve booked a room at a hotel for you and had some students bring over a few of your things. Clean up, get changed, and get some rest.” He looks at the watch on his wrist. “Don’t go to the university. Classes have been cancelled for now and research has been halted. Two days from now, we’re going to have dinner at my estate.” He gives them all a small nod, before turning on his heel.

The carriage ride is done in silence. Wynne is the first to go, the hotel not far. Leliana leaves with Morrigan. “Can you drop me off at a different address?” Noya asks through the slit of the carriage.

“Yes ma’am.”

The hospital is its usual self. Noya affixes the mask around her face as she descends down into the basement. “Good evening,” she says to the guard, “has anyone other than me visited recently?” There are no other signatures in the log book, and he shakes his head.

“Not beside the usual doctors and nurses, Miss Mahariel. Something wrong?” Noya smiles as she puts down her pen.

“No, nothing,” she says, even as his eyes travel over the ripped fabric at her shoulders, the blood flecked stains on her dress. He opens the door for her, and as she steps inside, the reaction is immediate. All the blighted contained within resume their writhing ten-fold, screeching through the bits in their mouths. Their eyes seemed to be fixed on her as she travels through the room, to that single bed. Tamlen, still strapped down, still blighted, still wild.

“At least it wasn’t you,” she says to herself as she stands beside his bed. Tamlen’s eyes are fixed on her, as much as the rest. Eyes wide, bloodshot. All she can think about is how softly and easily the dagger had sunk into the blighted’s eye. As if slicing through butter, until the tip had reached bone. She doesn’t walk back. She waits for a taxi.

At home, she locks the door behind her. She takes one of the kitchen chairs, shoves it underneath the hilt and against the door. She undresses quietly, all the lights on and bright, folding the ruined dress into a small bundle. Standing in front of the mirror, she runs hands over tender flesh, the bruises that have only just begun to form. Her nightgown is a simple white shift, loose over her body, down to her feet.

She moves to her knees beside her bed, as if to pray. Instead, she braces herself, and reaches underneath. She pulls out a small box, holds it in her lap. She opens the clasp, and the revolver sits neatly inside. She places it, and its bullets on her bed. One by one, she loads it, and presses the cylinder back inside. She turns it, waits until the cylinder latch locks into position with a click, and then pulls the hammer. This time, she’ll be ready.

Noya’s head whirls at the knock. She stands slowly, the gun clenched in her hand. The hardwood is cold against the pads of her bare feet. Another knock, more urgently this time. Noya very carefully pulls the chair away from the door. She undoes the lock as another knock lands. She opens the door only a sliver, enough to peer through, the gun at the ready.

“Aren’t we very suspicious. I assume you do not get many guests? Alas, the hour is late, but I can do nothing for it. You know my circumstances. Surely you have not forgotten our arrangement, Miss Mahariel?” Zevran smiles. “Are you going to invite me in or should I knock again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	5. Allegiance

He is a particular presence in this place. It is unlike with Alistair, or with her, where they can easily blend into their surroundings, into a crowd. Zevran does not need to be alone to stand out. He rests a hand on the back of a chair, looks around her flat as she places the revolver on the round table. There’s a scarf hanging around his neck, a white silk thing, and Zevran holds his hat in his other hand. The suit is pressed and clean, stitched to his perfection. King’s Row has made its mark however – his shiny black shoes now have flecks of mud and dirt upon them.

Noya has taken her robe from her bed, wrapped it around her. She pulls it closer now as she takes a seat, leans forward, and crosses her arm over the table. She watches as Zevran slowly turns, taking in all the wretched emptiness of her flat. Then, he pulls the chair out, and takes a seat. He rests his hat upon the table, drapes his scarf over it. As he removes his gloves, plucking fingers one by one, he says, “I had a strange thought today.” He laces his hands together, places them on the table and looks at her intently, without straying.

His hair is pulled back in a fairly loose bun, and wisps of wheat sway by his cheeks. Even the harsh cold lights do nothing to dim how warm he feels. Noya’s fingers play with a loose thread by her elbow. “In our every interaction, you have not shown any fear. It is easy to tell, you see, by the sound of one’s heart. A faster heartbeat gives away the game but yours, ah, yours is very calm. There is only one time it quickened. When you thought I might retaliate against your wolf – what was his name again?” He says, looking to her for the answer.

“Alistair.”

“Yes,” Zevran snaps his fingers together, points at her briefly, before joining his hands together once again. “You were not afraid for yourself, but you were afraid for him. That I might hurt him.”

“Couldn’t it also be that I was afraid he might hurt you?” Zevran’s eyes widen slightly, and he lets out a surprised laugh. As it quickly dies, he leans back, and crosses his legs. He lets a hand fall to rest over his knee. He rocks the chair back and forth, one foot firmly planted on the floor.

“Ah, now, I do not think you are this kind of woman.”

“What kind of woman?”

“Soft-hearted. We have only met briefly while I imagine you and this Alistair are good friends, yes? Your concern and your fear would not be for some stranger,” he says. It’s Noya’s turn to lean back and smile, cross her legs, rest a hand on her knee.

“I don’t think you know me at all,” she says. He chuckles at that, his eyes dropping from hers.

“That is quite true,” he says, fingers playing with the fringe of his scarf. “And you do not know me. Yet, here we are.” A twinge of a smile at the edge of Noya’s lips.

“Here you are,” she says. He leaves the scarf alone with a twinge that mirrors hers. “I would like to know you, if you’d let me.” Noya leans forward, elbows on the table, linking her hands together as a bridge to rest her chin upon. “How long has it been since you’ve had a friend?”

“I have friends,” he says with a scoff, “you believe yourself insightful, but you are quite wrong in this.” Noya doesn’t let this deter her.

“Fine, not friends, specifically. People you trust.”

“Ah, now, here is the proper question. I have found that giving your trust to others is a rather foolish way to get yourself killed.” He tilts his chin upwards, suddenly proud of himself, “I have been hunted by many, and caught by none.” Zevran leans forward, fingers touching at the cold barrel of the revolver on the table. “Is this for me?”

“That sounds exhausting,” Noya says as she reaches for the gun, pulls it towards her, and holds it in her lap. “And no, it’s not. I thought you might have been someone else.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Expecting trouble?”

“Yes.” His eyes follow her as she stands, goes to the box on her bed. She places the revolver back inside, closes the lid, and puts the box by her pillow. It will not go far. “I, and a few others, were attacked by blighted.”

“I was wondering of the sick I smelled on you,” he says. As if to confirm it, he takes a deep inhale. She stands near him, one hand flirting at the edge of the table. She allows her other hand to play with the edges of her robe; dark and plain, lined with lace.

“I only had time to wipe off the gore,” she says.

“Strange days when the sick attack those who seek to cure them,” Zevran tells her.

“I can’t help but agree,” she says. Noya lets her hip rest against the edge of the table, and looks towards him. She studies him carefully, from the perfectly curved brows to the lack of stubble on his smooth olive skin. He reaches up, rubs a hand along the jaw.

“Do you see something you enjoy?” He asks as the smile begins to spread across his face.

“All the books I’ve read describe vampires as monstrous, and yet I see nothing monstrous about you.” The smile quickly fades, goes dim and into dark. A cloud hangs above his brows and he looks away from her as his hand falls back to his lap. In those silent seconds, he comes to a certain decision. He feels the fangs grow long in his mouth, press against his lips. Vision intensifies, ears grow to a point, and nails become sharp. He lets it all go, and the tattoos slowly appear on his face. He turns back to her, sclera dark and unnatural quality to the color of his eyes. Bright, almost sick.

To her credit, she does not flinch. Neither does he, when she reaches out. Her fingertips follow the dark lines at the side of his face. “When did you get these?”

“A lifetime ago,” he says.

“Do you have more?”

“Oh yes.” His smile makes a sly return. Her touch drifts, makes its way towards his mouth. She can feel them, just underneath. As she goes to raise his lips, he wraps a hand around her wrist. “As much as I enjoy your lack of fear of me, I less enjoy being examined as though I were some sort of strange animal.”

“You’re right. My apologies. No one deserves to be treated that way,” she says as he lets go of her wrist, and she draws her hand back. “Do they hurt?” He runs a thoughtful tongue over them, and shrugs.

“All of it is rather painless. Did you know that I am quite resistant to cold now? Ah, I remember when those terrible winter days used to bother me. But now?” He looks up at her and grins, “I could chart paths through the most terrible of places.”

“Is it true that vampires are sensitive to fire?”

“It is a most peculiar sensation, not unlike pins and needles. It does give some discomfort, and I would be quite upset if my hair burned off.” He pinches a strand of it, pulls at it, as if to confirm that it is still indeed atop his head.

“And the sun?” she asks.

“It weakens us, yes. Quite spectacularly. It will not kill, but it will wound. Consider vampires hardier humans. There are things which do not touch us, such as age, but enough bullets will be a danger. The myth that we can only be killed by stakes is amusing, but it is more our hearts being pierced which causes the killing. Some have tried the oddest things: knives blessed by the Chantry, water blessed by the Chantry, bullets blessed by the Chantry –” he says nonchalantly, as though he’s simply reciting from a list “– Odd how they always think the Chantry’s blessing will simply solve their problems. Hmm.”

“You’ve been hunted often?” Noya asks. Zevran sighs as he leans back in the chair, spreads out his hands.

“I admit to being a troublemaker in my youth,” he says.

“And now?” 

“Only slightly less so.” They both smile at each other. “What of you?”

“The others would say I’m a troublemaker, I suppose. Although I usually get them out of the trouble that I bring,” she says.

“You have a strange collection of friends. A Chantry sister, a werewolf, and two witches.”

“Strange yes – a strange coincidence. It’s not as though I’d sought them out. It simply… happened to be,” she says.

“Now you consort with a vampire,” Zevran says.

“The only question that remains is if you’ll stay. You could have your own strange collection of friends,” she says. He huffs a laugh at that.

“For now, I come to collect on our deal. More than that – what can I offer but more of my blood? I am not skilled in medicine, or knowledgeable of plague. I do not wish to test your cures, nor do I wish to be experimented upon.”

“Isn’t it enough not to be alone? Hunted? Haven’t you ever wanted to take a breath?”

“That usually ends in tragedy.”

“If you don’t see it through with us, then you won’t know. Perhaps our end is decidedly worthwhile,” Noya says with a smile as she leans back against the table even more, steps slightly closer to him. One shoulder of her robe threatens to fall, and it clings precariously to her. “Even if it does end tragically, do you truly not remember how comforting it is to be surrounded by people you trust?”

“I remember. I also remember the _tragedy_ which came from my complacency.”

“I see there’s no changing your mind,” she says. He can only smile, shrug. “The blighted also ransacked our research. You say you only have your blood to offer, but you don’t know exactly how valuable that is.” That only makes him frown.

“If this partnership is to continue, then you know what I will ask in return. If the blighted are attacking others, then it will only spread. I do not think it appetizing to drink from someone with a plague. It is also rare, to find a source that a vampire does not need to beguile, trick, or kill afterwards.” He fixes her with a level gaze.

“You know that I’ll agree.” She pulls all her loose, long locks over one shoulder, exposing the jugular of her neck. There isn’t any hesitation in the movement, and she returns his gaze just as evenly. Zevran rises to his feet with ease, and stands before her, the table now biting into the back of her thighs. She tilts her head, closes her eyes.

“You do not think I will hurt you?”

“Does it usually hurt?”

“I do not mean – I’ve been told it is like a pinch – but…” he trails off as she opens her eyes once again. A simple urging, to get on with it. He closes the distance between them, one hand settling on her hip. The other goes to her cheek, while his mouth goes to her neck. She closes her eyes, waits for the pinch, but instead, he plants the kiss lightly. Up and down, moving the neck of her nightgown out of the way. The robe begins to fall, and she catches it with her elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“It is easier,” he murmurs against her skin, “if your blood is pumping quickly.”

“I see.” She takes his hand from her cheek, presses his palm against her breast, over her nightgown. “Then should we have sex?”

“It is entirely up to you,” he says, pulling away from her neck, and they look at each other for a moment. Then, she presses her other hand against his trousers, over his cock.

“I don’t want to be kissed,” she says.

“Ah, but we have before.”

“That was acting.”

“I understand,” he nods. He pulls some of it back. The claws are never helpful, here. The fangs stay, the ears remain, but his eyes soften, sclera returning to white. He puts a hand against her thigh, begins to walk his fingers over her nightgown. Slowly it raises, bunches in his hand. When it’s high enough, he slips a hand underneath, finds that her skin is warm to the touch. He moves his hand from her thigh to her hip, as he rolls her breast in his hand.

Noya reaches for the buttons of his trousers, undoing them one by one. “What do you enjoy?” He asks her.

“Anything,” she says as her hand moves over the outline of his cock, trapped behind his undergarments, “everything.”

“Very specific,” he says as she moves her hands to his shoulder, plants him back down onto the chair. His hard work unraveled, she hikes up her skirts herself as she moves to straddle him. She balances herself on him, a foot on either side, pressing into the floor. She reaches between them, but before she can touch him, he puts a hand at the nape of her neck. “Noya. Wait.” Her fingers curl, and she pulls her hands back to herself. “You are certain this is what you want?”

“Yes,” she says. He nods, and his hands go to rest at her thighs. He moves upwards, in sync with both, wrapping around. His touch moves over the bumps of her spine, while she pulls his cock free of his trousers. Her nightgown against the back of his hand, he moves one around to cup her breast once again. It’s heavy in his hand, and he rolls her nipple between his fingers. He keeps his other hand at her lower back, flat and steady, as she wraps her hand around the base of his cock.

Her head falls against his shoulder, his against hers, the only sound between them being quickening breath. “Should we take precautions?” she asks in a low whisper.

“If you would like. There is no fear of pregnancy between a human and a vampire, if this is what you are concerned about,” he says.

“_Mmmm_.” Her thumb presses gently against his slit, smearing the wetness down the underside of his cock, and she turns her focus back to masturbating him. His hand moves from her breast, over her belly, to the soft patch of curls at her cunt. The first touch is electric. She sucks in air between her teeth as he begins to gently rub at her clit. One of her legs begin to tremble, after a while, and he eases his touch, moves his fingers through her wet folds. His middle takes a different path, pushes against her entrance. It’s here that she now pulls at his wrist, moves him aside.

“Are you certain? I can do more for you –”

“This is enough,” she says, taking his cock in her hand. She holds him steady as she shifts forward, rolls her cunt against him. She stands on her tip toes, her forehead pressed against his, and searches for her entrance with the head of him. Then, she slowly lowers herself, her hands moving to and clenching into his shoulder. She begins to move her hips, a quick up and down, the floor creaking underneath them.

He holds her hips steady, her nightgown slowly creeping up his arms. The robe is still only held by her elbows, completely gone from her back. It pools around his feet, over his knees. He reaches up, at the nape of her neck again, and pulls her down to him. His nose moves against her collarbone, up to the soft flesh in the crook of her neck. His mouth salivates. His tongue, against her skin. Salt, and something sweeter. Not as sweet as this. Teeth pierce flesh, plunge deep down. “_Ah_.” It is the only sound she makes. Something of surprise, of the pinch. Blood begins to pour into his mouth, and he grasps her hips tightly. She moves a hand through his hair, undoing the messy bun to do so.

When he stands, he takes her with him with ease. Setting her down onto the table, he never once takes his mouth from her, the taste of her iron filling his senses. She keeps one foot against the floor, the other leg wrapped around him as he takes over the thrusts – deep, heavy, quick in tempo, and without cessation. She holds tightly to him, her hands clenched in fists at the back of his jacket. His eyes are open, pupils wide. The black seeps into his sclera, unable to stop it. His jaw clenches down tighter, bites her harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	6. Murmuration

The sounds hum together in the heat. This cacophony of cicadas, beetles and bees. She is formed of things that are not herself alone. Noya wears her father’s belt, tied around her mother’s dress, and boots which are from Alistair. The stockings belong to Morrigan, the gloves to Wynne. Leliana’s jacket on her shoulders, and Tamlen’s pin sits high in her hair. There is a necklace she doesn’t recognize sitting around her neck, and she lets her hand stretch wide over the long wheat. A blade of it moves between her fingers, tickles at her skin. The sun sticks at her back, burns down her neck. She stands in the field, surrounded by dense wood. Whispered breath escapes her.

She is widowed in the wheat, a strange feeling of hollowness inside her. From the wood, a creature crawls. The breeze moves through, and it carries with it the foul scent of what stalks her. It does not pass the treeline, nor does it move out of shadow. There is no point in cowardice. The boots stick in the mud as she walks towards the creature. The hollowness changes, becomes untenable weight which moves from her lungs to her skull. Her upper lip prickles as the blood begins to fall from her nose. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, but it will not stop. No matter.

She picks up her skirts as she moves forward, sinks low in the mud. There is iron in her mouth, a grisly blood drool. It overflows past her lips, stains the fabric at her chest. She loses the jacket in the field. The boots slip from her feet, staying where they are stuck. The stockings are inevitably ruined, the gloves as she tries to pull her feet free. The pin slips from her hair, immediately swallowed up by the earth. The blood chokes in her throat now, and her breath is more a wheeze, unable to hold air inside her lungs. Her vision cracks, blurs, hums along with the heat. The creature wavers before her. She cannot make out its shape.

She nearly makes it to the edge before she cannot walk any longer. Her hands claw at the mud which seeks to drown her, already cold at her ribs. It swirls, the bloodied brown, and her hair sticks at her temples, her forehead. She pulls at the wheat, but it cannot hold her weight. She is being pulled under. She has lost what was given by the others. When the mud pulls her under, the necklace is all that remains, a halo for a lost head. Noya’s eyes slowly open.

Her bed creaks underneath her shifting weight, and she rolls onto her back. She lets her hand rest against her forehead and watches the way the light presses against the curtains. It would be easy enough to close her eyes, drift back into sleep and the dream which has already begun to fade. She reaches for what strings it left behind, but all she has is some intangible idea of what it once was. A nameless fear, a spectral warning, soon altogether forgotten. Her hand falls back to her side, over the covers. She pushes herself up to sit, feet coming to rest against the floor.

Her elbow presses into her knee, and her fingers run over her lips. She did not expect Zevran to stay. Indications of his presence remain. The chair, fallen in their haste last night, is now righted. The small box which was beside her pillow, now peeks out from underneath her bed. She supposes he must have carried her, as she has no memory of how she made it to her bed. There’s a single piece of parchment on the table. Folded, propped up, meant for to find. 

She rubs her shoulder as she plants feet against cold floor, makes her way over to it. Her fingers drift over the four indents in the crook of her neck. There is no blood, and to her surprise, the marks seem almost healed – as if they were days old, instead of hours. She picks up the letter, unfolds it with one hand. His script is neat, flowing, written in delicate cursive. She begins to make her morning coffee as she reads it, smiling at his telling of ‘_a most pleasurable evening’_. There are also apologies for leaving as she slept and assurances that they’ll meet again soon.

She folds it neatly, leaves it at her counter. The coffee scalds on her tongue, slightly burnt but strong enough. She sits at the table, and her finger moves over a tiny bubble of blood against the grain of the wood. Another, slightly splattered, and she leaves the cup where it is when she goes to the mirror. Cracked and clouded, still usable. She turns, pulls at her nightgown, and the back of it is soaked with her blood. Another thing to be scrubbed out. She leaves it with her clothes from yesterday. The bath is small, cramped, and the water cold. She runs the cloth over her skin, watches as gooseflesh prickles through the bruises which have fully flowered. The blighted hit bluntly, without thought or reason.

Is it Orlais, as Sir Loghain would believe? A plague in the capital of an enemy’s city would surely cause enough damage to render a conquest short. Still, unless they held a secret cure, it would run rampant through their soldiers as well. This tactic had been attempted before, to terrible consequence. Would the Orlesians really gamble on such a thing? King Cailain wants it to be the whim of the world, as untamable as a tornado or earthquake. It _could_ run its course, it could not. Then there is the troubling matter of the blighted being directed. She rests her chin on her knee, and grumbles at being a playing piece – set without knowing the rules.

Duncan had instructed them to stay away from the university, but an inventory needed to be taken of what has survived. She pulls at her hair, does her best to make it into something resembling sanity. Twisted and braided, pulled up and around. The corset fits snug, undergarments loose and clean. A white pouter pigeon blouse, wine colored skirt, with a belt around her middle and a long but simple necklace. Dark stockings run high, and her pointed shoes much the same. She ties them comfortably, retrieves her coat. Fall will give way to winter soon enough.

Noya locks the door behind her, races down the stairwell, her hand lightly on the banner. She finds Alistair at the entrance. “I was just coming to get you –” he’s saying, but she takes his hand from the door, and holds it in hers.

“We need to go to the University.”

“Noya, wait. Duncan told me what happened. I was going to get you food. Take you to brunch if you were feeling up to it. Are you going to the University to work? Even if everything was… _okay_, we don’t work on Saturdays.”

“It’s not for work.”

“Noya, brunch.”

“Later.” She gives his hand a small tug, a slight squeeze, looks over her shoulder at him. Reluctant but following, Alistair matches her pace. Only when he’s side by side with her does she let go of his hand.

“_Are_ you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Noya says. “Nothing but a few bumps here and there.”

“Duncan’s barely come out of his study. He’s worried and working on something,” he says.

“Then he won’t be here to get in our way today,” she says.

“About that…”

No one pays them any mind when they reach the University. It’s practically deserted, the medical ward sectioned off. Alistair follows Noya through the servant’s hallways, a way around the guards and those meant to keep wandering eyes away. She brings a finger to her lips as they approach Wynne’s usual room. The glass of the door is shattered out into the hallway. Noya quickly peeks her head around the doorway. Duncan is wearing one of his better suits, without stain or wrinkle. He has his arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he speaks. The sight of Loghain’s slick hair twists a knot in her belly.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” She asks Alistair, in a whisper. He frowns, but steps forward, tilts his head towards the door.

“Duncan is discussing what was destroyed. Saying you lot must’ve been close to the cure… sabotaged by someone who wants the plague to ravage Denerim… That a cure must still be worked on. Loghain is telling him that his orders are final and that the work must be stopped. Something about those with a royal permit working on it instead? Oh fuck.” Alistair grabs Noya by the arm, pulls her down the corridor and around a bend.

“Gooday Sir Duncan. Please give the others our King’s sincere appreciation for their hard work, but that is ended now,” Loghain’s voice carries down the hallway, as does the sound of his shoes walking away. Duncan, however, is still in the doorway, boring holes into his back with his gaze. After a moment, he finally sighs, lets his shoulders fall. He rubs his eyes as he begins to move away. Slipping from Alistair’s grasp, Noya makes her way to where he once stood. The theatre is in ruins. She steps inside, glass crunching underneath her shoes.

Chairs have been thrown, the desk overturned. Paper is strewn across the floor, stained with mud and who knows what else. The door to the lab has been torn from its hinges. She doesn’t make her way inside this one. Every glass vial has been crushed. The floor is wet with unknown liquids. Somewhere, in all of it, is Zevran’s blood. “I’m sorry,” Alistair says as he looks at the ruins of it.

“We’ll have to start again,” Noya says mechanically, “and likely without the University’s funds and support, if Loghain truly is shuttering everything behind royal walls.” 

“You don’t think one of those researchers will a cure?”

“I think that if they do, they’ll start at the top down,” she says, turning to look at Alistair, crossing her arms. “By the time they make it to Tamlen, it might be too late.”

“Oh.” Alistair sways on his feet, then stiffly puts his hand on her shoulder. She holds herself tightly, and he sighs. His touch relaxes, makes its way to the nape of her neck. He leans forward and lets his chin rest on the crown of her head. “It’s Tam. He’ll be okay.”

“I hope so.”

“He will. I promise.” They stand in silence, and he listens to her breathe. When he’s certain… he pulls back, both hands on her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “Can we _please_ go get brunch now?” Noya breaks into startled laughter, rests a hand on his chest, and smiles up at him.

“Yes, we can go get brunch.” 

“Thank the Maker.”

* * *

The afternoon goes quietly. The evening even more so. Dinner sits untouched on her plate, pushed away from her at the table. She is bent over the notebook, pen in her hand. Her writing is not as clean as Zevran’s – far less focused, each stroke pointed and pressed into the page. The language is also different, and she doubts that anyone besides Tamlen or herself might be able to read it. Which is fine – it isn’t meant for reading. So when the knock comes, it’s followed by pages fluttering, the book closing, and Noya shoving it into the nook above the stove.

“No need to invite me in, my darling. I have come to invite you out,” Zevran says, at her doorway, his hand extended towards her and a smile on his face. It’s one Noya matches as she slips her hand into his, manages to grab hold of her coat with the other. He manages to maneuver her so that their arms are linked together, shoulder against shoulder as they walk down the street. Feeble gas lamps do their best to light the way. Side and secondary streets are not lit at all. There are a few others, here and there, going about their business.

“Where are we going?”

“You shall see,” he says, turning to look at her, the smile still on his face taking a more mischievous quality now. “It is not a place many go, but I find it quite charming.” He leads her towards the edges of the city, near the Amaranthine Ocean. Fish takes over from the smell of soot, while most places on the waterfront are closed, there is one still with lights on. A bell chimes when they enter, and Zevran gestures for Noya to take a seat anywhere she likes. She chooses one by the window, looking out over the docks.

There is only one other person in the building. A stocky figure, hair untamed, dark and wild around her face. Her apron is covered in messy handprints – something of chocolate powder, perhaps a jelly for that one. She takes one look at Zevran, and they give each other a familiar nod. Then, she disappears behind the counter. He takes a seat across from Noya. “Do not worry, I am assured the food here is quite delicious,” he says.

“Can you eat? Or is it only…” she looks towards the doorway where the woman had disappeared.

“I may eat, but what you would call normal food is only ashes to me. It has a distinctly disgusting flavor. Blood is all that sustains a vampire,” he says. He makes a waving motion with his hand. “And do not worry about Mrs. Cane. She knows my nature, as I know hers. She is one of the _púcaí_.”

“What is a _púcaí_?”

“A shapeshifter. There are many stories of them. Most are about beautiful horses which entice humans to take a ride on their back. They would get a most wild and terrifying journey before the _púca_ dropped them back at home.” Noya smiles politely, thanks Mrs. Cane as she sets an appetizing plate down before Noya, and a single cup before Zevran. Then, she disappears into the back once again. Zevran drinks deeply, licks his lips.

“Ah, strong coffee is the only thing which does not taste of shit,” he tells Noya. She smiles as she takes the knife and fork, cuts into a gleaming thigh of chicken. Maple, and perhaps honey? A sweet glaze, moist and perfectly cooked. The potatoes are covered in gravy, the beans green and steaming.

“It _is_ delicious,” Noya says, “but how many women have told you that?”

“Many woman _and_ men.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “Does it bother you? That I also enjoy the company of men?”

“No. I think anyone, regardless of gender, is a fool if they turn you down.”

“Oh?” Noya touches fingers to her lips as she finishes chewing, swallows, and sets her fork down beside her plate. Her own reflection looks back at her in the glass, distant waves only barely able to be seem.

“There are people whose bones are dust, and who only you remember. You carry all those lives with you, through the ages.” She shakes her head, sets her hands down in her lap. “You would think that I would have nothing in common with someone from a hundred, two hundred years ago. Except that I do, through you. They’re not truly gone, because they stay with you.” On the table, Zevran’s hand clenches into a fist.

“And if I do not remember them as well as I should?” Noya puts her hand lightly over his.

“You can share their memory with me.”

“Perhaps another time.” The fist comes undone as he turns his hand over, fingertips fluttering at the base of Noya’s wrist. “You almost made me forget the reason I asked you here.”

“Oh?”

“You are perfectly allowed this, please do not mistake my asking for judgement. Please also do not either think it some sort of necessity for our courtship to continue.” A smile flickers across her face. “I simply wished to know the reason that I cannot kiss you. Everyone has their own, and I am quite curious of yours,” he says.

“If I’m going to kiss someone, then it should be someone that I love.” His eyebrows rise.

“If I was expecting a certain answer, it was not that one. You do not strike me the romantic type,” he says. Noya smiles as she leans forward, rests the corner of her chin on her knuckles.

“Then it will surprise you to learn that I’m a deeply romantic person. I enjoy having sex, and the pleasures that come with it. It seems contradictory, but I believe there’s a difference between sex and an intimate encounter between people in love,” she says.

“A unique stance for a woman of this age,” he says.

“Do you disapprove?”

“Rather the opposite. I will never understand denying yourself on of life’s greatest pleasures,” he says. “Then, Miss Mahariel, have you kissed someone you love?”

“I have,” she says.

“Should I be jealous?”

“No,” she says, “we’ve grown apart.”

“I see. I won’t press you further. Though I would have been fairly put out had a jealous lover made an attempt on me with a wooden stake,” he says. She laughs, and he leans back in his chair, satisfied. Her hand is free to return to knife and fork, eating while he sips at his coffee. He looks out through the window, at those distant waves. The moon’s reflection struggles over the ocean, broken and chopped.

“Are you the only vampire in Denerim?” she asks as she dabs at her lips with the napkin, sets it down over her empty plate.

“That suggests that we all know each other,” he says, playfully. “If the vampire is inexperienced, or careless, there will be signs. I have not seen any, so it could be I am the only one in Denerim. Or it could be that there is another, who is experienced and careful. It is hard to say.”

“Signs?”

“Ah, well, bodies, I suppose. Perhaps thralls – the dead who should not be walking, under the control of a vampire,” he says.

“Do you have thralls?” His face twists.

“No. I dislike robbing someone of their free will. I do not want a slave. The very idea disgusts me,” he says. 

“We are the same in that regard. I am one of the Dalish,” she says.

“I suspected,” he says. He leans forward, playfully looks around and drops his voice to a whisper. “Do you have tattoos?” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Somewhere naughty, I hope.”

“You’ll have to see,” she says, with a smile to match his.

“You are a terrible tease. If you will not tell me, then I suppose there is no point in delaying dessert.”

* * *

As promised, on the appointed day, Noya and the others stand outside of Duncan’s estate. “I’ve knocked plenty, but there’s been no answer. Do you think he went out?” Leliana asks, standing beside Wynne. Morrigan touches her hand to the doorknob.

“I could break this,” she says.

“No,” Wynne says instantly, disapproval resounding in the word, “Morrigan.”

“If he was missing something for tonight, he would have sent a servant or had Alistair go and fetch it,” Noya says. “In an estate with a master and a ward - there is no one answering this door. We were attacked. The University was attacked. Loghain tried to shut Duncan out.” She looks directly at Wynne. “We should break the door open.”

“I brought my lock picks!” Leliana says rooting around in her carry bag.

“Why do you have lock picks?” Morrigan asks. Leliana only shrugs, and smiles.

“Why _do_ you have lock picks? I have a key.” They all whirl around at the sound of his voice, and Alistair fishes a hand into his pocket. He brings out the ring of keys and steps through them to put the correct one into the lock. “He sent me to get wine. Can you believe it? He plans a dinner party and then forgets about wine.” His other hand is preoccupied with keeping four wine bottles close to his chest. After unlocking the door, he distributes one to each of them. “Duncan?”

His voice echoes through the hallway, and one by one, they all filter through the doorway. Noya keeps the bottle tight in her hands. The silence brings uneasiness, although Leliana is chatting quite amicably with Alistair. Wynne is smiling, contributing here and there, while Morrigan rolls her eyes. Noya opens the door to the dining room, and pauses, closes it almost completely once again. She holds out her bottle. “Alistair. Can you take this to the kitchen? Leliana can help you. You should bring us some glasses,” she says. She gestures at Wynne and Morrigan to hand back their bottles as well.

“Alright, if you insist. This better not be a habit, or else I expect to be paid like a proper servant,” he says. Leliana tilts her head questioningly, but all it takes is one short shake of Noya’s head to send her towards the kitchen.

“Alistair, I was meaning to ask you…” her lightly accented voice floats down the corridor. Once she’s sure they’re gone, Noya opens the door for Wynne and Morrigan. Wynne’s face immediately falls, eyes beginning to well up with tears. Morrigan rolls up her sleeves. Noya does the same, and walks over the threshold.

Duncan sits at the head of the long table. His body is bowed, his throat slit. Someone has placed a bowl beneath his neck. It fills with blood, a foul goblet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	7. Imminence

“Oh, Duncan,” Wynne says softly, swaying gently in the doorway. She watches as both Noya and Morrigan make their way forward. Morrigan takes interest in the goblet. With her hands on his shoulders, Noya very gently and carefully pushes his body back into the chair. She tips his head back against the crest rail, and sighs as she bends over to look closer. Noya puts one of her hands over his, and clenches his hand into a fist.

“Curious.” Morrigan holds the goblet in her hands, nose curling as she looks at the pool of blood. “This would suggest the presence of those who typically partake in the eating of blood.” Noya’s eyes flick towards Morrigan as she lets go of Duncan’s hand.

“There’s no rigor mortis, and the body is still warm,” she says.

“Interrupted in the middle of the meal, perhaps?”

“It could have been collected for some ritualistic reason as well. Either way, it was likely done after Duncan sent Alistair out. They would have been watching, then, and known that Duncan had no servants, or any other occupants.” Noya points towards the jagged slice across Duncan’s neck. “He fought, that much is clear.”

Morrigan settles the goblet back down onto the table and leans closer. She reaches out, pinches strands of hair between her fingers, and plucks them up from Duncan’s shoulders. “I imagine we’ll find evidence of trauma to his scalp,” she says. She glances towards Duncan’s hands. She picks one up, moves her thumb over knuckle and bone. “There’s nothing underneath his fingernails. Either he didn’t get the chance to, or he simply couldn’t pierce his attackers flesh.” 

“I would wager on not getting the chance to. This reeks of surprise.”

“There was no sign of disturbance when we entered the estate, so it’s entirely possible he was killed before he even had a chance to get out of the chair. Still, it will take a full examination to see if there are bruises elsewhere, and the body was staged for us to find –”

“If you don’t mind,” Wynne says from the threshold, “we should leave this for the police.” Both Noya and Morrigan instantly take a step back from the body, the guilt cascading over their faces. They look at each other uncertainly for a moment, before moving towards Wynne. While Morrigan crosses her arms, Noya reaches out, and puts her hand at Wynne’s shoulder.

“Morrigan can go with Leliana and fetch the police. I’ll talk to Alistair,” Noya says, looking towards Morrigan. A nod of agreement from her, and Noya gives Wynne’s shoulder a small squeeze. Even when they leave, she does not. Wynne rubs her hand against her forehead, leans against the doorframe. She crosses her arms, looks at the long and empty table. The fireplace still burns warmly, without cessation. Her shoes tap across the floor, come to rest beside Duncan. She reaches out, closes his clouded eyes.

“What have we found ourselves in now, old friend?” She murmurs softly.

Alistair is crouched at the very bottom of the shelves, Leliana leaning over him with the candle in her hand. She holds it near the dusty bottles and squints as she tries to read. “There are bottles from all over the world here,” she says in a low voice, as if afraid to disturb the silence of the cellar. A spider watches idly from the corner, content in its web. Alistair reaches out, and plucks one of the bottles from its place. He blows at the label, succeeds in sending a cloud of dust upwards. Leliana coughs, waving her free hand in front of her face.

“Most of them are from Orlais,” he says as he holds the bottle up, “this one is from Rivain.”

“How lovely,” she says as she reaches for it. The glass is cold to her touch, the bottle still quite dusty. She holds the candle closer, rubs her thumb over the label. The details of it slowly become legible. “Are there any from the Free Marches? I hear Starkhaven has a delicious flavor.” Alistair looks over his shoulder up at her, and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure you’re a sister of the Chantry?”

“It’s not like I’ve taken any vows yet,” she says cheerfully. They both turn when they hear the door open, creaking footsteps on the stairs. Morrigan lights a flame in the palm of her hand, looks around the cellar with disdain.

“This place is filthy,” she says, her lip curled. Noya shakes her head, and takes the candle from Leliana. The wax drips onto the plate, the lone flame desperately reaching for the ceiling. Alistair stands, brushes the dirt from his trousers, and moves to follow Leliana and Morrigan up the stairs. Noya puts her hand on his arm, keeps him here, instead. Their voices slowly fade, footsteps growing further, and she finally turns to look him in the eye. She can only see part of him; the flame struggling in the overpowering darkness. She puts the candle down on one of the shelves, and steps closer to him. Her hand slips from his arm, to his hand.

She reaches upwards, settles her palm against his cheek. His stubble is rough underneath her fingers, her thumb, as she moves a comforting touch across his cheekbones. “Alistair,” she says, “I have something I need to tell you. You must promise me you won’t do anything rash, first.”

“Rash? I think it’s only fair you tell me what it is before I promise anything. Full knowledge for agreement, and all that. Why are you making me promise anyway? Did Zevran do something to you?” His voice turns from playful worry to full-blown concern, his brows furrowing. He steps closer to her, his hands clenched in fists at his side. Noya shakes her head.

“The reason I sent you away from the dining room. We found Duncan, Alistair. He’s dead.” He blinks at her, looks towards the stairs. It’s Noya’s hand around his, at his face, that keeps him from leaving. “Alistair, look at me.” He does. “Do you understand what I told you?” He doesn’t. “Morrigan and Leliana are fetching the police. Wynne is with the body. I don’t think you should stay here tonight,” she says. He looks at her blankly. Her hand slips from his, and she cups his face.

“Lal,” she says and perhaps it’s the rare use of the nickname which snaps him back to reality. Perhaps it’s just that her earlier words have finally sunk in. Either way, trembling hands wrap around her arms. It’s always been a running joke how much taller he is compared to Noya and Tamlen. How much wider. Yet, here, in her embrace, he seems so small.

* * *

“Twice, in one week. I don’t like seeing you at all these crime scenes,” Sergeant Kylon says, notepad in one hand and pencil in the other. The four women exchange glances with each other.

“We don’t like being at these crime scenes,” Noya says. Alistair, and a few officers, have gently laid Duncan’s body on the floor, covered him with a sheet. It’s there that he stands and stays, unwilling to leave the body. Kylon grunts amusement, points the end of his pencil towards Alistair.

“Who is he?”

“Sir Duncan’s ward. Having examined the body, we determined that the murder occurred after he sent Alistair away, and before we arrived. That’s a very small timeframe. There’s a possibility Duncan was being watched, and perhaps the murderer may still be watching,” she says.

“Oh so you’re police now?” he says it with skepticism, but he’s writing furiously. He points at a nearby officer, and gives an explicitly clear set of instructions to patrol around the house and apprehend anyone of suspicion. Morrigan is the only one paying attention to Kylon. The other three are watching as Alistair helps lay Duncan’s body onto a stretcher. He’s left behind as they take his body away, and so, he joins the edge of their circle, by Morrigan. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. His eyes are red-rimmed, but dry.

“We’ll have to clean up the place,” Kylon says as an officer carefully steps around them, the goblet of blood in his hands, “and investigate the rest of the area. It’s a fairly large estate so it might take us some time. You shouldn’t be on the property until we finish.”

“There’s an empty room next to mine at the hotel, Alistair. I’ll book it for you,” Wynne says. He agrees without argument and with a simple nod. “Perhaps you should pack some things? If Sergeant Kylon doesn’t mind, that is.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, but we do need an officer to go with you and watch. I’m sure I don’t need to explain why,” Kylon says. Another nod, Alistair’s jaw locked shut. “We covered all the questions earlier…. And then some, so you’re free to do as you please. Just, don’t leave Denerim any time soon.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

While Alistair packs his things, the others wait outside. Noya turns her head away from the estate, towards the distant sun disappearing behind rooftops. Its hand still reaches across the sky, clawing at clouds in an effort to remain. It will lose this fight, but Noya knows what comes after. “I’ll arrange a service at the Chantry,” Leliana says quietly. “I’m sure they’ll need to do an autopsy but… after. Alistair’ll be overwhelmed with the… with whatever he needs to do.”

“I’ll see if I can drop in on the autopsy. I’m too close to Duncan to be a part of it, but I can ensure that everything goes smoothly and that the body is delivered to the Chantry you choose, Leliana,” Wynne says. Morrigan has her arms crossed, one finger tapping at the side of her jaw.

“Am I the only one concerned with who might have killed him?” Noya turns her head back to the group at Morrigan’s angry words.

“No, you’re not. A blighted wouldn’t have the mechanical skill to do this, even if they were controlled. You saw how brutish they were when they attacked us. They don’t have the fine motor skills required for this. I do think it is related to the Blight, and that Loghain might be involved,” Noya says. Wynne narrows her eyes. “I meant to bring it up at dinner. I went to the University yesterday, with Alistair. We both saw and heard Loghain telling Duncan that we’re no longer allowed to work on anything to do with the blight. It’s being completely closed off for royally appointed physicians and researchers.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” Morrigan says, biting at her thumbnail. Wynne takes a deep breath.

“I agree. With Duncan’s death, I am now the Dean of Medicine. It will need to be finalized and put in place by Irving, but after, I’ll petition King Cailan for permissions,” she says. Morrigan moves to reply, but the front door opens – Alistair, with a bag in hand – and she quietly closes her mouth instead. Wynne smiles at him kindly, puts a hand at his back when he joins them.

“How much do I owe you for the hotel?” He asks.

“Oh my dear, nothing, you me nothing. You’ll be doing me a favor by keeping me company. It’s a nice hotel, but very large and very empty. Now I’ll have someone to share dinner with,” she says. She locks her own grief away, for his sake. Wynne and Leliana flank him as they begin to walk down the street, keeping the conversation light and in an entirely other continent of anything related to Duncan. Alistair listens patiently to all of it, but doesn’t say anything in return. Morrigan and Noya walk behind them, quietly contemplative.

“Miss Mahariel.” She turns her head at the sound of her name, isn’t surprised when she sees Zevran behind her. He holds a plain parasol in his hands, protection from the almost sleeping sun. He smiles pleasantly, in a neat suit. On first appearance, it might appear plain, but through the shafts of light, small patterns appear on his jacket. The vest is more outwardly ornate, the tie made of silk. Golden chains mark the presence of his pocket watch, and although he wears a bowler hat, he cannot hide his hair.

“Zevran,” she says. As she stops, so do the others.

“I was wondering if you might enjoy coming with me on an adventure,” he says.

“An – right now?” Noya looks at the others. “It’s not the best time…”

“You should go,” Alistair says. She looks from one to the other, searches for help from Morrigan or Leliana. “Go.” He says it again, a little more insistently, brushing her away. She moves closer to him, her hands on his chest, and lifts herself up onto her tip toes.

“I’ll bring breakfast with me in the morning,” she tells him as she presses the kiss to his cheek. The conversation continues as they split away, with Leliana dragging even Morrigan into it. They go in the opposite direction, and Zevran smiles as Noya walks beside him. He keeps the parasol between them, turning it in his hands so that it spins.

“So Alistair gets a kiss…” Zevran says, leaning over with a smile.

“Would it shock you to know that we’ve slept together?” Almost instantly, Zevran turns on his heel to look behind him, at Alistair’s retreating back. He walks backwards with confidence, and doesn’t miss a step, even as he tilts his head to fully examine Alistair’s form.

“It doesn’t, actually,” he says as he turns back around. They both share a secretive smile before dissolving with laughter. As they sway, their shoulders bump into each other and their hands intuitively entwine. It’s as though, with his presence, the day is swept away and forgotten.

“Tell me about this adventure we’re about to have,” she says, still smiling.

“I was hoping you would accompany me to a showing of _A Mabari of No Importance_.”

“Is that Tethras’s newest?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I would be delighted, Mr. Arainai,” she says as she links her arm in his.

* * *

She wears her best. It’s fine enough, perfectly acceptable. More than acceptable. It’s the same as every other noble, every other Lord and Lady who walks the halls of the Royal Palace. Wynne sits patiently outside of a closed door, a stack of papers in her hands. She watches each servant come and go, following their quick steps and listening to their low whispers. Something is happening. Something which keeps her from the throne room, something which sends others away. She’s the only petitioner. “Her Majesty will see you now,” a servant says, bowing low. “If you’ll follow me.”

The hallways seem never ending. It isn’t as oppressively ornate as the Orlesian palaces – Ferelden is much too proud of their own tradition and heritage – but it is still quite impressive. He brings Wynne to a large door, lined with gold leaf. The bowing never ends, as he does another when he opens the door. “Ms. Aequitar, your majesty.”

“I know your name. My husband visited your University.” Anora doesn’t look up from what she’s writing. The light pours in from the large windows behind her, highlight her frame.

“Yes, your majesty. I was hoping to re-open the issue of our research. In the short time that we’ve studied the blight, we’ve made significant progress, and I believe that –”

“Lord Mac Tir has already settled this matter, hasn’t he? There are many doctors in our halls, these days. All of them think – all of them believe they will find a cure,” she says, the scratching of her pen finally pausing. Anora barely lifts her head to look at Wynne. “And they will. Gooday Ms. Aequitar, I hope your journey home is pleasant.”

“If you would, your Majesty –” Wynne steps forward, beginning to hold out the papers she holds. Anora stops her with a flat raised hand.

“Gooday Ms. Aequitar.”

“Your Majesty.” Wynne gives a low courtesy, turns around. The pace she holds is no longer leisurely. She practically marches through the halls, staring down all those who pass her. From the moment she heard that Loghain was shuttering research, she suspected. Anora’s words firmly press her guess into knowing territory. King Cailan has the blight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	8. Chasing Footprints

It is as though stepping through to another world. The sounds of the city dull and fade, disappearing completely once the door closes behind her. She holds tight to her evening clutch, her footsteps softened by the carpet underneath her feet. The concierge is at his desk, speaking with a warm smile to a young couple. Two behind the main desk, one handing keys to an older gentlemen. Her eyes scan the room quickly, and she makes her way towards the lounge. He has both elbows on the armrest, his legs crossed. He is wholly absorbed on the newspaper, almost to the point where she can see him reading every word.

She steps beside him, leans against his chair, and tilts her head to read the paper. She takes the gloves from her hands, and holds them in one. With the other, she curls a strand of his hair around her finger. She’s immediately drawn towards the headline of the main article. _Where is King Cailan?_ His absence is noted. The cause being published is not long away now. When it is, it will take the blight from some easily dismissed sickness and elevate it. There’s already a low thrum of anxiety. Cailan’s illness would shift it into panic. “They are still turning away Ms. Aequitar?” Zevran asks, taking her hand from his hair, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. He keeps his hand in hers, her hand against his cheek, leaning against it as he finishes reading.

“They’ve learned that turning her away only means she’ll come back. They’ve stopped telling her to leave, so she’s simply made herself at home,” Noya says. He chuckles under his breath, folds the paper, casts it onto the small table beside them. Another kiss, to her knuckles, and he moves to his feet. The shell of her ears are burning, cold still from the bite of winter. She can feel its kiss in her fingertips, her nose, and in the frost around the edges of her lungs. He’s dressed smartly, in one of his best suits. His hair dusts his shoulders, while the longer strands are pulled back from his face and knotted once at the back.

He puts a finger underneath her chin, his thumb against her lips, and slowly lets the two meet. “Good evening, Miss Mahariel,” he says in a low voice.

“Good evening, Mr. Arainai,” she says. A smile flickers on his lips at her reply.

“I see the snow has not yet let up,” he says, spying the still melting flakes on her long coat and gently brushing them away, before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“No doubt it will go all night,” she says as she slips her arm into his offered one, and so linked, he guides her to the dining area. Built near the Denerim railway station, the Grand Old Pearl is not a place she would have set foot inside if not for him. Her coat is practically swept from her shoulders, her gloves taken and folded, her hat neatly layered with it, all to be collected after their dinner.

She’s unable to keep herself from looking at the high arched ceiling. There’s beauty in the mad details, the carved steps which lead to intricately painted patterns. Knotted flowers at the top of long pillars, which run down to marble floors. Perfectly cut and placed, and as she walks behind the waiter, she avoids the cracks between the slabs without realizing it. Great mirrors hang between tall windows, reflect many of Denerim’s denizens at the tail end of their dinner. Her footsteps are muffled in the crowded room, lost in the slow roll of conversation, laughter and heavy utensils tapping at fine china.

Candles flicker at the middle of each table, encased in stenciled glass. A few hanging chandeliers, standing candelabras… such a soft, intimate glow as Zevran helps push in Noya’s chair for her. Perfectly polished silverware surrounds her plate, and she only half listens to him giving their order to the waiter. On impulse, she pushes at the base of the nearest fork. It tilts from the straight line of its brothers, filled with her little bit of chaos in all that order. “I was surprised at your suggestion to dine together here,” she says, her hand falling to her lap.

“Ah, yes,” Zevran says, “I do find _human_ food rather foul, but some exceptions can be made for exceedingly special company.”

“I’m already here, Zevran. You don’t need to flatter me,” she says.

“But I enjoy flattering you. And you? Do you dislike being flattered?” The smile plays about her lips as she leans back in her chair, the simple earrings she wears bouncing against the edge of her jaw.

“No, I don’t dislike it,” she says. She turns to look at the rest of the guests, this pack of people. There are so many with gold about their necks, their fingers, lushly woven into their very gowns. Rouge massaged into their cheeks, a stain of color about their lips. Silk gloves underneath all the rings and bracelets, perching precariously at their upper arms. Zevran curiously turns his head in the same direction.

“Are we evaluating the other guests, my dear? Some of them are quite overdone. Stuffed chickens in finery. What they will do to snatch at the briefest bit of beauty.” He leans speaks in a low voice, mischief glinting in amber eyes as he looks back at her.

“Oh?”

“There is of course, the race,” he says in almost a hush, some secret to be kept between them and only them. Indulging, she leans forward as well, the corners of her lips upturned. “You must be at the head of a trend, or even better, create the trend itself. The lengths one will go to do so?” He shakes his head, entirely amused at whatever rush of memories flood through him.

“Tell me,” she says, letting her hand rest on the table, fingertips pressed against his elbow.

“There is, of course, their brief obsession with _atropa belladonna_,” he says. She tilts her head, the silent question, and he breaks into a smile. “Deadly nightshade. They would put a single drop into their eye, and it would feign sexual excitement. They believed it made them more seductive. They slowly blinded and poisoned themselves in order to win this race,” he says. “Taken differently? Some quite vivid hallucinations.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Of course. I try everything at least once,” he says, giving her a small wink. While they are merely beginning their dinner, the others are finishing. As their food is wheeled in a small silver cart, tables are emptying. Zevran stands the moment the cart is by their table, reaching for the utensils the waiter holds.

“I will serve, if you do not mind,” he says.

“At your pleasure, serah,” the waiter says with a small bow, before leaving them to it.

“I am jealous of your company,” Zevran says as he begins to cut into the chicken, steam licking upwards once it’s split in two. “This also keeps them out of our business, hmm?” He fills her plate with food – maple glazed chicken breast, fresh green beans, filled baked potatoes… it almost seems endless. Things she would have never thought to make for herself, but has them served before her.

Zevran pops the cork from the bottle with a simple flick, and fills her wine glass. As he sits, he takes the flask from his inner jacket pocket, mimes a shushing motion at her as he fills his own glass. This wine is much darker, thicker, and far more fragrant for him than it is for her. He has filled his plate with some scraps of food, works at them with his fork and knife as they speak. “I have been meaning to ask you, and yet I have not found the perfect moment. I have resigned myself to the fact that there is no such thing, and so I will merely ask. You. A coroner. Why?” He asks, taking a sip from his glass. He savors the blood on his tongue, swallows deeply, and licks the evidence from his lips.

“Tamlen used to say it’s because I’m simply ghoulish,” she says, taking a bite of her own food.

“That is – your friend, yes? The one who is ill,” Zevran says, leaning back as he listens, his eyes never leaving her.

“Yes,” she says with a nod, her fork balanced delicately between her fingers, “but it’s more practical than he thinks. There are so many things about the body we don’t know, so many things we do wrong. We can find the answers in the unfortunate dead.”

“And this is healthy? To surround yourself with these dead?”

“Just as a blade needs a whetstone or a mind a book, so does life need death. It’s what makes it lively. Considering death, contemplating what it would be like to go to sleep and never wake up, centers me. It’s a gloomy thing for contemplation, but just as crops need manure, it’s fertilization for life. It helps guide me to myself,” she says.

“Some would think to find their guide, their self, in the Chantry.”

“It’s cheating, isn’t it?”

“The Chantry? Cheating?” Zevran smiles over his wine glass, firelight reflected in the warm amber of his eyes. There are only a few others left, in their corners the same as them, stealing every moment they can together. She settles her fork at the edge of her plate as she takes her own drink, clears her throat with it.

“I would like to be clear that I don’t begrudge someone finding their self in the Chantry. For me, I – we are flawed people trying to improve our flaws, but the Chantry tells us to simply believe in the Maker and your flaws are irrelevant. Then where is the motivation to be better? What about _now_? I do not know if it’s the Creators, the Maker or nothingness awaiting me, but I’ll do what I can with what I have.”

“So cutting open cold bodies and taking out their insides to study them help you to be a more complete person.”

“Essentially.”

“If you found that, one day, you were afflicted with eternal life. What would you then?”

“I don’t know Zevran, what do you do?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. He huffs, some, beaten, and they take a sip of their own respective drinks at the same time. She puts the glass down on the table, the swirling liquid contained within swaying slightly. Her fingertips tap at the bowl of it, settle at the base, turn it slightly. “Everyone searches for a meaning to life, forgetting that the answer is to simply be alive.”

“It is easy for mortals to say such a thing,” Zevran says, a sigh following quickly after his statement. The food on his plate has been cut and cut again, pushed around together, looking as though they’re leftovers of a well-deserved dinner. “But forgive me, I pushed us astray from our original topic. Did you know I know something of autopsies? My knowledge may be a few decades old, but…”

“When did you have experience with autopsies?” She asks, plunging her fork through the soft beans.

“It’s a rather gruesome story, my dear, it may stifle your appetite.”

“Zevran.”

“You are merciless! One day I shall find a topic that shocks you.”

“Doubtful.”

“You know a challenge only motivates me even further,” he says. The wide smile spreads across his face, and like this, Zevran can’t hide the fangs which have grown from the mere taste of blood. With the others so deeply invested in each other, their food, he shows no fear in showing himself. Unflinching, she smiles back.

“Now, my story. As you say, there are many mysteries with the body. The Orlesians are so proud of themselves, with their fancy tower and gilded halls, but when their science fails, they will always fall back onto the mysteries. One poor man had his wife die from tuberculosis. One after the other, his children began to fall ill after her. When only one was left, the man had lost his faith in the sciences. Superstition came knocking. A wandering merchant told him that his misfortunes were because one of his fallen family members were feeding on the rest. In short, the merchant told him a vampire was killing his family,” he speaks remarkably calmly, amicably.

“This was untrue, but he did not know this. He was simply a desperate man, searching for a solution. So, he implored this world-wandering merchant to divulge his secrets. How could he drive away this vampire and save his only son? A noble cause. A less noble outcome. The merchant told him that one of his dearly departed was now infested with a malevolent and violent spirit. It would climb out of its grave, and drain the life from him and his son. To purge this spirit, the body must be dug up. If it is not decayed and still possesses signs of life, then that is the vampire,” he wets his throat with a few long sips.

“So the man dug up the grave of his wife, and opened her coffin and found only bones. He dug up the grave of his oldest daughter, and found the same. Yet, with his youngest daughter, they found her skin was still colored pink, her organs intact, and decay had not yet reached out its finger and touched her. They exhumed the body, removed the heart, and burned it on a pyre. To cast away the unwelcome spirit for good, you see. The man thought his troubles were over. As if a miracle, his son began showing signs of recovery. Of course, this was a false hope. Tuberculosis took his son, and then came for him, all while being ostracized by his community for desecrating the graves of his family,” he says. The knot is firmly stitched between Noya’s brows, her lips downturned.

“What a sad story,” she says. “All of it doesn’t explain how you were involved, though.”

“Ah, I happened to be staying in the town. So I was involved through the community, not directly, rest assured. I did tell him that it would accomplish nothing and warned him not to disturb those resting. Alas.” He shrugs, moves his fork from side to side, a flayed piece of chicken moving with it.

“He only wanted to save his family,” she says.

“What a thing is life, and oh what we do to keep it,” he says, finally giving up and dropping the fork completely. They are alone now, the candles on other tables being extinguished one by one by a waiter.

“It’s strange. Before I knew of,” she lowers her voice, “witches and vampires, I thought myself a fairly logical person.” She clears her throat, allows herself to speak normally. “Now, however, knowing what I know and with Tamlen the way he is… I could see myself frantically reaching for a far-off and superstitious solution, just as he did. What part will you play then?”

“My hope is for a cure before we get to that part, hmm?”

“You would have liked him. He would be a good person to remember, and to carry with –”

“You speak as if we are already past this hope. We are not. A cure will be found and then we can have many an awkward introduction, yes?” He downs the last of what’s in his glass, then pours some of the wine into the glass. He swirls it, lets the wine find every last drop of blood. He downs it as though it’s a shot of vile alcohol, makes a horrible face afterwards, and a shudder passes through him. “_Disgusting_.” Spoken under his breath, more for him than for anyone else. He quickly shakes it off, smiles when he looks back at her.

“Now, I am dying to show you the room. In my tour of every hotel Denerim has to offer, this is by far the most comfortable. Also the most expensive, but that is,” he makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. Then, he puts both palms against the table and stands, leaning over it to whisper to her, “The bed is quite something. Soft, yet firm, perfect for –” 

“You’re incorrigible.” Her words slice through his, entirely amused.

“Ah, yes, but can you blame me?” He moves around the table, holds out his hand for her. She gratefully takes it, and the moment they’re walking away from their seats a waiter is already handing her back her things. They walk slowly in the great silence of the hotel. Hardly anyone seeking lodging so late at night, and the train isn’t due until first light. Strange city lights flicker against the snow covered windows in the hallway, while the pattern of the carpet twists and turns beneath their feet. Portraits and paintings cover the walls, poor imitations of greater works. They depict no place particularly real, no person of relevance. It has no past, no future, simply exists in this place. Just as they all are.

Zevran pulls the key from his pocket, opens the door and flicks the switch for the lights. They slowly hum to life, growing brighter until settling onto something of a warm quality. Zevran shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, throws it over the end of the bed. True to his word, it _is_ fine. As he bends down before the fireplace, matches in hand, she lets her fingers run over the bedspread. One of the softest things she’s ever felt. She moves to a nearby dresser, opens one of the drawers and finds it empty. All the rest are the same, save for the small book in one of the nightstands. The Chant, of course. She circles the entirety of the room, makes her way over to him.

Zevran stands near the fireplace, his arms crossed, admiring his success. It burns with fierce intensity, spreads quickly over the stack of wood. Noya lets her hands move over his shoulders, down his back. She wraps an arm around his waist, the other walking fingertips to the nape of his neck. She pulls his hair away, presses her lips against his skin. He lets a hand rest over hers, with that one with palm pressed against his chest, and keeps her close. Her chest against his back, and she moves slowly, touch drifting over his Adam’s apple. A shiver runs down his spine as she moves her tongue over the shell of his ear, murmurs his name. He can feel her breath touch him, prickling and delicate.

“Now who is the incorrigible one?” He asks, the flush settling deep in his cheeks, biting his bottom lip as she begins to unbutton his vest.

“I’m just impatient,” she says. He chuckles, closes his eyes, and tips his head back. They sway together, his head leaning against hers, as she begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. One by one they give way under deft fingers. She slides her hand into the opening she’s created, touches skin against skin. There is a certain cold quality to him, but that’s swept away by the easy warmth of his personality. Her fingers tap down, curl against the soft wisps of blonde hair at his naval, and she’s only stopped by his hand around her wrist.

“Impatient indeed,” he says, opening his eyes and turning to face her.

“I know what I find pleasurable. What’s the point in delaying it?” She asks. He laughs fleetingly, and puts his hand at the nape of her neck. He draws her close, his other hand at the small of her back, keeping their bodies pressed against each other. He presses his forehead against hers before he speaks.

“There is pleasure in the delay, if done properly,” he tells her. Dutifully, she stands, as he begins to undress her. One by one, garments fall to the floor around her. Her shirts, her shift, her corset… all of her unmasked, naked. He stands back, to look at her, admire her. Down the center of her chest, from the goblet of her throat to her bellybutton, is an ornate and stylized tattoo of an arrow. The triangle head sits at her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Dalish, close to her heart.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he steps forward, hands light on her hips. “Beautiful,” he repeats, his touch drifting firmly upwards, rolling into a fist, his knuckles moving over the line of the arrow. He brushes away the stray strands of hair which fall from her up-do, and they fall over her shoulder. He cups a breast in her hand as she tilts her face away from his, and he peppers her neck in long, slow kisses. She can feel his tongue moving against her, the barest scrape of fanged teeth against skin. She closes her eyes as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, fidgeting fingers knotting in his shirt.

He rolls her breast in his hand, pinches her nipple between two careful fingers. His other hand presses at her back, between her shoulder blades, holding her steady. His eyes shine when he resurfaces, and his touch moves from her breast to the arrowhead. She opens her eyes, allows herself to be walked backwards until her thighs touch the bed. Even still he keeps that pressure until she falls upon it, propping herself up onto her elbows, the mattress sinking underneath her weight. His eyes leave hers, begin to roam her body. Wherever his eyes go, his hands are sure to follow.

Over her breasts, of course. A playful tease of her nipple before he goes. Steady touch at her ribs, over the curve of her, holding tightly at her hips. Back up again, the way he came, and down. He reaches, grabs, touches all that he can, all wrapped up in something needy. He deliberately avoids her thighs, her cunt. His shirt unbuttoned, it splits in the center, reveals dark olive skin, the darker swirl of tattoos he takes no care to hide. Something he cannot hide is his cock, straining painfully against the confines of his trousers.

He grabs hold of her legs, spreads them for him. Then he pulls her forward, until she’s at the very edge of the bed. He leans over her, and the path he blazed with his hands he now follows with his mouth. From collarbone to rib, kisses that cover the entirety of her _vallaslin_. He lingers at her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple. He sucks at it, lets it fall free with a vulgar pop, only to kiss at it again, his hand massaging underneath. All of this, and yet not one touch at what she desperately wants him to. She locks her legs around his waist, angles to pull herself closer, begins to reach between them for the clasps of his trousers.

“Impatience, impatience indeed,” he says good-naturedly, followed by a brisk _tsk tsk_. He snatches her wanting hands before they can meet their goal. She watches him sink to his knees, and he cautiously lets go of her hands. She props herself back up onto her elbows, and assured she won’t try anything, Zevran smiles and leans his head against her thigh. She still has one leg loosely wrapped around him. The heel of the other is perched on the thin bed frame which holds the mattress.

“Lie back. Yes, all the way. Close your eyes, I – yes, I’m serious, now close them – dream of whatever you like, whoever you like, but know that _I_ am the one doing this to you.” She follows his instruction. She lies back on the bed, her hands draped over closed eyes and waits. And waits. And waits. She can feel his nose moving at her thigh. His steady breathing against her skin. His hands move lightly up and down her leg, gooseflesh following quickly. It’s almost a relief when he kisses her at the absolute center of her inner thigh.

The bite is quick, not painless, but not without pleasure. A momentary cry as he sinks his fangs into tender flesh, but it’s erased by the following shudder that works its way through her body. Imagine anyone you like, he said, but how could she picture anyone but him? He heaves a long and satisfied sigh when he pulls away, but that’s a brief thing. He laps at the still leaking marks on her thigh, begins to kiss down closer to her cunt. The ache builds in her belly, the fierce knot which pulses through her, and she slips a hand down over her own body, moving to give herself relief.

“No cheating, my dear,” he says, catching her wrist, pulling up her hand. He buries his face against her palm, kisses at the middle of it, then sucks two fingers in his mouth. Then, he sits up slightly to let his own hand caress her face. “Return the favor.” Two fingers press at her lips. She does the same as him, tongue swirling around them. It barely needs to be done. When he touches those two fingers at her cunt, he finds it already dripping wet for him.

He moves his fingers through the folds of her, puts pressure on her clit from either side. Her leg trembles on the frame. The other he holds steady. He runs his tongue over the entire length of her, again and again. A maddeningly simple thing, and she grinds her hips against his mouth. He folds an arm down over her hips, keeps her still. As her hands begin to clench in the bedsheets, he finally presses a single finger inside of her. Barely. Teasing at her entrance, in and out, in and out again, as he sucks at her clit. His tongue flicks back and forth over the most sensitive part of her, until he suddenly dives, replaces his finger with his tongue. She gasps, her eyes snapping open.

“Zevran, you –” He eats as though he’s not seen a proper meal in a year and a day. His holding arm now moves, allowing her to move her hips freely, as he reaches up to pinch her nipple between his fingers. Her hands fist in the sheets, her only anchor in wild waves. He keeps a steady and unrelenting place. Her body moves underneath him, but never pulls away. Her back begins to arch, both her legs trembling. Her eyes squeeze close at the same time her mouth falls open, straining with the cry. On this dangerous cusp, he pulls away, stands. He tears furiously at the buttons of his trousers, pulling out his cock, and taking himself in hand.

His cock twitches almost angrily, thankful to be free, the head of him leaking with long held desire. Before she has a moment to breathe, to mourn the loss of his mouth, it’s replaced by his cock, sliding in swift and deep. He keeps a firm grasp on her hips as he buries himself up to the hilt in one movement. She gasps, groans, writhes and reaches for him. She barely touches at his shoulders, but still it pulls him forward, lost in the feeling of her. His eyes are closed, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, a bead of sweat at his temple. There’s a wistful knot between his brows, reaching desperately for a place they can only find together.

He’s broken out of the spell by her suddenly moving, his cock slipping from her dripping cunt. One foot planted against the floor, she turns, her knee on the edge of the bed, pulling a pillow from its place to underneath her. Never one to turn down an invitation, Zevran aligns the head of him with her entrance, letting loose a guttural moan as he moves inside of her once again. They fuck together – her, moving her hips back against his, while he lets her waves crash against him. Linked in one single purpose, all other things fall away.

He hunches over her, his thoughts swimming, trying to keep a balance and a rhythm. His eyes close as his hair falls free of its knot, tickles against her back. She has her eyes closed, the pillow bunched beneath her, an unworthy buoy. “Don’t stop,” she says, her head against the mattress, eyes opening as she looks behind her as best she can, at him. “Please don’t stop, I’m close, I’m close, I’m so…” Her words trail away, lost in the effort of breathing, while Zevran grits his teeth together. His fingertips bruise into her hips, and what a relief it is to feel her suddenly shudder, sigh, her cunt clenching around his cock.

They collapse together, breathlessly, Zevran simply letting himself fall beside her. She rolls over, his arm underneath her neck, and rests her hand on his chest. He’s struggling to get his breathing in check, while she simply allows herself to drown in what sensations remain. “Tell me about one of the interesting people you’ve met,” she mumbles, curling closer, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Right now?” Only one of his eyes opens to look at her, but with the way she is, he can’t tell if her eyes are open. He hears her chuckle, feels a small nod.

“Right now,” she says.

“Ah… let us see…” His every memory is in disarray. What thoughts float through his head, he cannot quite catch them. He was sure he had someone to start with, but shaken so, he can only conjure one. “I once knew a prince who was thought to be the most beautiful, most striking. It was said that there were none who could resist him, and that all who came to see him gave him everything he asked for and more.”

“Was this beautiful prince you?” she asks.

“No,” he laughs, “but you flatter me. Where was I? Ah, yes. So, his visitors would shower him in unimaginable wealth, although he never asked for this. He only ever asked for one thing.”

“_Mhmm_?”

“Their most terrible secret. They would always tell him, or so it was said. I went to see him when I heard the tales, as I could not resist. An attractive man swindling the secrets from the rich of the world? Say no more.” Noya chuckles into his chest. “There was barely a line to see him. I think others were too afraid. They do not want to give up their secrets, yes?”

“And were the stories true? Was he as beautiful as they said?”

“Even more so. I knew on sight that the one who sat before me was no ordinary man, but something far more obscure, although he did not look it. Now, I tell you the reason why they would give him such wealth. This prince could see the moment of one’s death. He could tell the others when, and the manner in which they would die. The riches were bribes, in a hope that he could delay their deaths. Unfortunately for them, he could not. Still, you cannot fault them for trying.”

“Did you give up your secret?”

“I did, and then he told me that my death had already come and gone. He could no longer see anything for me,” Zevran says, one arm wrapped around her to hold her, while the other moves over her knuckles as he speaks.

“How lovely,” she says, stifling the yawn against him.

“Lovely?”

“_Mhmm_. You have a blank slate. You’re not bound by any fate, or future. You’re free,” she says.

“I – I did not think of it this way before,” he says. “I had considered it the opposite. Trapped.”

“I need to get up and wash,” she says, “but I’d rather fall asleep here.” He looks at the creature in his arms. Her hair has been thoroughly disheveled, pulled from the delicate up-do. She breathes through her mouth, her eyes closed, completely at ease. She is – well, how many years had it been since he’d associated with someone for so long? How long had he stayed in one single place – Denerim has seen more of him recently than any other place.

“Wash, my dear. Then there is something I wish to show you, unless you are too tired.” Noya smiles, her eyes still half closed as she pushes herself up to look at Zevran.

“You’ve already ruined my sleep schedule quite thoroughly,” she tells him. He can’t help but laugh, puts a hand against her cheek.

“I suppose I have. You will be unintentionally living nocturnally soon,” he says. That one arm still around her, he slips the other underneath her legs. He lifts her with ease, walks to the washroom. He sits her on the counter, for now, takes the hotel robe from its hook and drapes it over her. He turns the taps, tests the temperature, then goes to stand near her. She leans against him, head against his shoulder, and allows herself to lazily rest as the bath fills.

They make quick work of it, no matter how much they both long to simply _be_ in the water. He gets out first, wraps the towel around his waist and pulls the nearby stool closer. While she sits in the cooling water, fingers pressing at the small marks on her thigh, he gently brushes the knots from her long hair and helps her dry it. He winds it all into a single braid, curls it in place at the back of her head. They dress together, Zevran pulling his clothes from one of the many suitcases by the bed. He takes a parasol with them when they go.

They walk together, Zevran holding the parasol between them. Noya stretches out her hand, away from the edge of the parasol, watches as snow lands and melts on her glove. There is naught but silence now, lost in the muffled layer of snow, and their footprints are the first to wear a path. “I must confess, I have been to Denerim before. Many times, although I did not stay quite as long. It used to be, ahhh, one of my safe places. I have more now, in many different cities around the world,” he says as they walk to the royal quarter. Houses are more spaced out here, no need to cram workers together as if they were a pack of rats.

He stops outside of one rusted over gate, dead vines curling around each bar. He breaks the lock around the gate with a simple tug, and pushes open the gate. “I have not been here in ages. I have had it passing through – my family line?” He winks at her as they stroll up to the front. “From one Zevran Arainai to the next.” He stops in plain view of it. A large free-standing estate, dark, with the windows boarded. “It will need work, yes, and perhaps that is one reason I have been staying at hotels.”

“Still, it is a place your superiors and the crown do not know about. I am not without wealth. I have connections with smugglers as well. We are running out of time for Ms. Aequitar’s petitions, are we not? And I do want to meet your Tamlen,” Zevran says, and her gaze slowly shifts from the estate to him. “There is surely space for whatever materials you and the others need to make a cure for the blight.” She’s wordless in this. Speechless. Her arm slips from his as she stands in front of him. She puts a hand at the name of his neck and pulls him in close.

She holds him firm in the hug, so much so that he’s practically missing himself entirely with the parasol. Snow falls softly onto his back. “Zevran,” she says in a hoarse voice and somehow holds him tighter, “thank you.” She squeezes, and he smiles. He can practically feel her heavy heartbeat through their ribs, their clothes.

“You are very welcome,” he says. “There is space for everyone, if you wish them to stay. I know you still have some still forcefully relocated. I do not think the blighted would dare attack you here, and then, I will be with you.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with all of us staying here? With you? I know you have your reservations.”

“I do. Alas, I am a slave to your whims. From what I have seen, they are good people, and you vouch for them. That is enough,” he says.

“Zevran, I – ”

“I say it is enough and yet she continues to protest! I am terrified if not even this can satisfy you,” he says. “I would love to continue standing here, but the sun is beginning to rise.” Noya slowly loosens the hug to look over her shoulder, at the threads of light starting to weave across the sky.

“Then we should head back,” she says.

It’s almost the same as when they were walking in the other direction. Now, heading back into Denerim proper, the city has begun to wake. Theirs are no longer the only ones in the snow. It hits her, suddenly, as they cross the street. A particular feeling, as though snow had been dropped down her back, gooseflesh from head to toe. At least, this time, there’s someone with her. Zevran suddenly stiffens, looks down a certain alley. He at least attempts to be unbothered, with a simple, “may we head in that direction for a moment? There is something I am curious about,” and a smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He drops the smile completely as they make their way down the alley, Zevran leading the way. He holds Noya’s hand tight in his. An abandoned place, they listen to the echo of laughter from distant open windows, chatter from the houses nearby. Breath fogs around her mouth, clouds around her head. The shadows shift with each step, mocking imitations of people upon the wall. It eventually leads into a courtyard, with a snow covered bench and a single dead tree at its center. In the wind, a piece of parchment flutters, tied to the tree with red string. She’s at his side as he takes it, and it’s easy to read the words written upon it.

_It’s so good to see you again Zevran._

  * _T_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


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